My Daughter Isn't Going to Be Dating Some Dirty Shape-Shifter

Jenna, honey, we need to talk, okay? Now, you know I love you. Your mother and I, we - we both love you. But this business you have going with that changeling needs to stop. Yeah, I know he has a name, but do you know what it is? His real name? Because if you did, you’d fucking own him. But you don’t. You think his name is Nacho or something. Nick, whatever. But my daughter isn’t dating a shape shifter. Not in my house. Can you even tell the difference between them? For all you know they’re, like, some fucking blue shapes with sentient thought. You don’t know. You’re too wrapped up in him being anything you want, whenever you want. But what if he’s just studying the crevices of your body so he can imitate you and empty your bank accounts while your body rots in some dumpster. It’s not dramatic; watch the news, honey. It happens. It happens. How do I know you’re actually Jenna? Fucking… Where did we go on vacation when you were seven? And how do I know you just didn’t tell him – if he’s even a he – that in some moment of shape-shifty passion? You could’ve. Or maybe you are him. We can never be sure now. We don’t even trust each other. We’re thinking about blood tests. Or can your little boyfriend imitate DNA, too? Goddamnit! Look at what you’ve done to this family by opening your loins to a man who can hide in the shadows - by becoming them! Oh God! Well, I’ll tell you one thing. I hope you’re wearing protection. Because if you think your mother or I are going to pay for some half-ling, you’re wrong. I don’t care what your cousin tells you. Raising a baby that can turn into a rabbit isn’t easy. It’s fucking hard.