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to enter the egg on the day of conception. How then was I conceived if my parents married when I was two years old?
    Prior to having my dad in my life, it was just my mom and I in the old apartment. I don’t remember everything that happened to me at that age, but I did have vivid memories of their wedding day. Mom even framed the pink ballerina dress and lavender sash I wore in a boxy Lucite frame that hung in our second floor hallway. She said that I wouldn’t walk down the aisle unless I had a purple ribbon and a ballerina skirt. She also said I refused to drop flower petals, and insisted on carrying her bridal bouquet instead.
    My memories of that day remain unscathed, due partly to the seven photo albums we have, and partly because we moved into a house with my dad the very next day. Boxes were hauled in, Grandma was unpacking dishes and making lemonade, and everyone was congratulating me on getting my dad.
    “Hi, special girl,” he’d shout when I’d enter the room. “Guess what…you can call me daddy now,” he said and threw me in the air, igniting my signature toddler giggles. “You are the most beautiful little princess, you know that?”
    “I know that!” I would yell on the descent.
    He always called me his beautiful little princess.
    Sitting at Pleasant View School, after learning precisely everything I didn’t know about sex, I went numb. My mouth was dry as dirt, my skin was tight and my stomach felt like someone was stepping on it. I left the classroom without permission that day and ran to the nurse’s office.
    Nurse Goode greeted me as soon as I crossed the threshold. “Hello, Grace,” she said. “What can I help you with?”
    I sat on the squeaky vinyl daybed and looked into her eyes. She was a sweet, quiet woman who always had the right answer. She never made anyone feel like they were a burden to her, and whether she knew the students who were hypochondriacs or not, she always treated every ailment with kid gloves.
    “I don’t know who my father is,” the words erupted from the pit in my stomach, and caught both of us off guard. I had every intention of complaining about a sore throat.
    She spun her stool around and faced me before standing up and closing the door. Then she sat back down, smiled caringly, and folded her hands in her lap. “Grace, what’s going on?”
    “My dad didn’t come until I was two,” I was talking fast. “And the sperm needs to travel through the cervix, into the uterus and plant itself into the egg before fertilization can begin. Only then can a fetus be created, and it’s nine to ten months from there,” I took her through everything I’d just learned, as though she didn’t know. “So how could he have come along two years after I was born?”
    I’ll never forget the look on Nurse Goode’s face. I’d stumped the panel, I’d taken that lovely, unassuming woman who could dispense Neosporin faster than the speed of light, and rendered her speechless. She was frozen, instant-read thermometer in hand, but frozen nonetheless. “Maybe we should call your mom?”
    After about twenty minutes, and a brief, softly spoken phone conversation with Nurse Goode, my mom arrived at the school. She was wearing her workout clothes and looked like she needed a shower.
    “I’ll leave you two alone,” she said, and patted my mom’s back on her way out.
    My hands were shaking, and I knew, simply based on the fact that Nurse Goode answered none of my questions, and instead called my mom to the school, something wasn’t right. I had just literally learned about sperm, ovaries and fertilization, so my mind was incapable of coming up with any answers on my own. My friends and I had never discussed when their fathers had come into their lives, so I had nothing to compare my situation to. I couldn’t help but wonder in that moment whether or not I was alone in my situation…whatever it was.
    “Why do I feel scared?” I asked my mom, but kept my gaze securely fixed