My existence is a ’90s sitcom punch line. My dad and stepmom were college sweethearts who were on a break. That’s where I—and my stepsister—come in. Dad had a drunken night with a sorority girl, my mom, and knocked her up. My stepmother, Sarah, had her own hookup that produced a plus sign on a little plastic stick. There was no denying I was my father’s daughter. But they had to wait on the paternity test for Sarah’s baby, which ultimately showed my dad was not the father. Dad and Sarah worked things out. My stepsister, Elsa, got two dads because hers stepped up and wanted to be a part of his kid’s life. And I got a front-row seat as my dad showed, with Elsa, how a man was supposed to treat his little girl, while I had to survive off the scraps of affection he tossed my way. Then, on a night out while I was trying to escape the suffocating loneliness of home, I met Trevor. Older. Hot. My savior. We had one night together before I woke up alone in his house. And found pictures of him with his arm around my stepsister. Because Trevor wasn’t just the guy who gave me the best night of my life. He was my stepsister’s dad.