The Chosen Family

Lying on the couch, I reevaluated my youth and just my entire identity. Growing up in the 80s, I was unique, and one thing that truly set me apart was my mixed heritage, which shaped me for who I am today.
Of course, in today’s age, being biracial is not as eccentric anymore as it was back then. My mother is German, and father is Black, which gave my sister and me distinct appearances. We had a tan skin tone, corkscrew curls that bounced with each step, and dark brown hair color that drew attention from random public onlookers. One time my mom shared a story; I was 3 1/2 years old, and we were waiting for my dad at a bus stop in Philadelphia to arrive. She stated that this memory began with a challenging incident but ended on a surprisingly positive experience.
A woman was also standing and waiting for the bus, and she kept staring at us. This woman would look at me, then back at my mom, and this would go on for about 15 minutes.
Finally, the woman asked my mother, “Aww, is she adopted?”
This shocked my mother; the question alone was invasive and filled with assumptions.
My mom shook her head and replied with intensity, “No. I gave birth to her; this is my daughter.”
I remember how my mom described this lady as an elderly white lady who was on the plump side, with mixed grey and black short hair, and a flower print dress that was popular to wear in the late 70s. Her chubby feet were overflowing from her red high heeled shoes. The question this lady asked really made my mom upset, but unfortunately this was not the first or last question/comment someone had asked about whether I was adopted or not.
The older lady’s jaw dropped, and a wrinkle formed between her eyebrows; the woman had a look of disgust and turned away. As my mother felt animosity, she told me I must have felt it too because I ran up to the lady and yelled out to her:
“I’m waiting for my chocolate daddy!” jumping up and down with joy.
According to my mom, the senior lady found my words delightful, which made her chuckle. She was not telling me that immediately all of this woman’s assumptions, or prejudicial behavior changed from that day forward, more wanted to explain that by me making that cute innocent statement made whatever antagonism this lady wanted to bring towards us; that I somehow made light of the situation. Children have a way of changing the mood in regards of their ingenuous charms. My father’s bus came soon after, and he walked towards us and gave my mom a kiss while hugging me. The lady then moved down further as if all her judgments had come back and now wanted no part in witnessing this interracial family. He didn’t seem to be bothered by such behavior, at least from my perspective. My father always had a smile on his face but simultaneously had a contradicting look of despair.