Good morning, a wrinkly women says to me. Good morning, I respond back. I've seen her before. She usually sits in the row behind me, moaning and grunting along to the worship songs. 

Conversation and laughter echo off the church walls. Every sunday morning. 

Hello, greets a beaming couple. The pastor is amazing, the big nosed girl tells me. Thank you, he's my dad, I smile back. Is he really your father, asks the girl’s tiny eyed companion. Yes, I say sheepishly. Yes the pastor is my dad. Oh. The couple wander off and I make my hands into fist. 

The pastor? Yes my father. And I am the pastor’s kid. And so is my sister, my brother, and my other sister. He is our father. We are the Pastors kids. 

Every sunday morning, I watch my dad preach. I watch people listen consumed in his words. I watch people nod off, mouths open and eyelids falling shut. Sometimes I listen, but other times I am the one struggling to stay awake. 

Good morning everybody! Good morning pastor! I must tell you what happened the other day! Good sermon pastor! They all say to him. 

Good morning girl! Who are your parents? Him? The pastor? Oh. They all say to me. 

I understand why people don’t think he’s my father. He isn’t my father by birth. But he is legally. When people ask me what its like I say you get used to it. But you don’t. 

This is my daughter, my father says when he introduces me to people. Then that look the appears in people’s eyes that I know so well. This is your daughter, they ask. Yes. Oh. Well nice to meet you.