Ms. Feldson had been watching Addie and Kathleen play dolls on the living room floor. Satisfied with the quality of their interaction, she turned her attention to me.

“Do you have a business card?” Patty said.

“I do.” I took my wallet from my hip pocket and removed a card that had been freshly printed for this very occasion. I handed it over.

Patty read aloud: “Donovan Creed, Special Agent, Homeland Security.” She smiled. “Well that doesn’t reveal much. But it certainly sounds mysterious and exciting. Do you travel much, Agent Creed?”

I wondered how well we’d get along if I told her I was a government assassin who occasionally performs free-lance hits for the mob and for an angry, homicidal midget named Victor.

“I do travel. But I’m afraid my job falls short of being mysterious or exciting. Mostly, I interview people.”

“Suspected terrorists?”

I layered the batter into Kathleen’s brownie pan with a silicone spatula and swirled Addie’s name on top before placing the pan in the oven.

“Apartment owners, business managers, that sort of thing.” I closed the oven door and set the timer for forty minutes.

“What’s in the brownies?” she said.

I felt like saying marijuana, but Kathleen had warned me not to joke with these people. She was in the home stretch of the adoption process and I intended to do all I could to help her.

“You remember the actress, Katharine Hepburn?” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“This is her recipe. I found it in an old issue of the Saturday Evening Post.”

“Oh,” she said. “I’d love to have it!”

“Then you shall.”

A home study is a series of meetings you have to go through as part of the approval process for adopting a child. Kathleen had provided all her personal documents, passed the criminal background check, made it through all the appointments and provided personal references. But at least one meeting is required to be in your home, and all who live there (Kathleen) or spend nights there (me) had to be in attendance.

Patty Feldson wasn’t here to do a “white glove” interview. She’d already made a positive determination about Kathleen’s ability to parent. All that remained was to see what sort of person the boyfriend was. She knew, for example, that I had a daughter of my own, who lived with my ex in Darnell, West Virginia. If she’d done any digging she also knew that while I’ve always been emotionally and financially supportive, I hadn’t spent as much father-daughter time with Kimberly as I should have.

Patty moved closer and locked her eyes on mine. Lowering her voice, she said, “There’s a big difference between being a father and a dad.”

Right, I thought.