Chapter 9 - THE TABLE WE SAT AT AGAIN
Three years after Lucille, Dad asked to meet me for coffee.
Not dinner.
Good decision.
Public café.
Cheap.
Better decision.
He was already sitting when I arrived.
No suit.
No broker confidence.
Just my father.
Older.
He stood.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
We sat.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
Then Dad said:
“I saw your exhibition online.”
“Mom showed you?”
“Yes.”
“What did you think?”
He smiled faintly.
“I still don’t understand half of it.”
I laughed.
Honest.
“But I understand that not understanding something doesn’t make it worthless.”
There.
Years of therapy could probably fit inside that sentence.
We talked for forty minutes.
Not about reconciliation.
Not inheritance.
Not careers.
Grandma.
Chicago.
My new studio.
His consulting work after reinstatement.
Smaller clients.
More oversight.
He said:
“I check every certification twice now.”
I smiled.
“Growth.”
“Expensive growth.”
“Usually.”
Then he became serious.
“There’s something I need to ask.”
My body tightened automatically.
He noticed.
And stopped.
“Never mind.”
“What?”
“If you don’t want—”
“Ask.”
He breathed.
“Would you ever have dinner with your mother and me again?”
I thought of Lucille.
The bill.
The note.
Blocked phone.
Humiliation.
Then I thought of the last three years.
Specific apologies.
Restitution.
Space.
No public rewriting.
No demands through relatives.
“I don’t know.”
Dad nodded.
“Okay.”
Another thing he had learned.
A month later, I called.
“Sunday.”
“What?”
“Dinner.”
Silence.
“Somewhere normal.”
Dad laughed softly.
“How normal?”
“Under a hundred dollars per person.”
“Deal.”
We met at a neighborhood Italian restaurant.
Mom cried when she saw me.
Dad told her not to overwhelm me.
I nearly laughed.
Dinner was awkward.
Then less awkward.
Nobody ordered for me.
Nobody criticized my career.
Nobody described my life to the server.
At the end, the check came.
Dad reached for it.
Then stopped.
He looked at me.
“Split?”
I smiled.
“Yes.”
Three equal shares.
$47.22 each.
Dad paid his.
Mom paid hers.
I paid mine.
May you like
Best restaurant bill of my life.
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