Dinner didn’t continue after that.
It ended.
Quietly.
Awkwardly.
People avoided eye contact as they stood up, gathered their things, and left one by one.
But my father stayed.
Sitting there.
Looking at the papers.
Looking smaller than I had ever seen him.
“I didn’t know,” he said again.
“I know,” I replied.
That was the problem.
When I stood to leave, he called my name.
I turned.
“I was proud when I gave you that car,” he said.
I nodded.
“I know.”
“But I think…” he hesitated, “…I should have been more proud of the way you used it.”
For the first time that night—
I smiled.
