He gave me a look like he wasn’t sure if I was being serious or not in my sudden interest of his family. “It’s just my mom. Well, she’s married now, but that happened only a few years ago, so it’s not like I call him dad or anything. They got together after I started college. He’s a nice guy and he treats her well.” He did that shrug thing I’d noticed he did when he was trying to convey indifference. “My dad was never really in the picture.”

Now I felt like an asshole, because from what my friend Priscilla had told me I should’ve assumed that his family history would be complicated, and probably not in my WASPy, everyone hates each other but pretends everything is fine kind of way. I was about to try to pivot away from a topic that clearly was going to be problematic, when Patrice moved to pour some more champagne in my glass and topped himself off.

“My mother was my father’s mistress in Haiti.” He looked right at me, head back and shoulders straight. Like he wanted to make it very clear that he was not ashamed.

“He came by every day for a few hours, but he was never a parent.” He made a dismissive hand gesture as he spoke. “He said hello and asked me how I was doing or whatever, but he wasn’t my dad.”

He chuckled, but again there was no humor in it. “I didn’t realize not everyone’s dad came over from six to eight at night Monday to Friday, until I was like eight.”

I tried to say something because I felt like him sharing this was some kind of self-punishment. “Patrice you don’t—”

He shook his head and kept talking. “My dad had money and he wanted to take his family to France when things got bad after the coup. He told my mom he couldn’t take us with him. His wife wouldn’t tolerate that, but he did help her get visas for us to come here.” There was an edge to his voice. Whatever else happened between Patrice and his father, none of it seemed like it had been good.

“He gave her money too. We left Haiti by car and drove to the DR, then flew out of Santo Domingo to come here.” I noticed he was no longer glaring, just talking. Telling me his story. Opening up to me.

“That must’ve been so hard, Patrice.”