“Your whiteboard,” he says, eyeing Tumbler as we fall in tandem with the light evening crowd. “You keep a very detailed schedule. Dog name, owner name, unit numbers, dog park schedule.”

“Ah.” More silence. Maybe this is just the new status quo between us, this weird distance because some things can’t be taken back and hugged away once they’ve been said.

“Why?” Dad eventually continues. “I mean, it’s just for you, right? You know all this stuff by heart.”

“Habit.” I shrug, not wanting to credit or think about Corinne’s influence on the smaller aspects of my life right now.

As if on cue, Tumbler lunges for a chicken bone some jerk threw on the sidewalk and gets tangled into his leash in the process, increasing his panic.

Before I can rectify the situation, Dad gets down to one knee and expertly untangles him, scratching him behind the ear as he confidently fishes out the gross bone from his mouth and then wipes his hand against his pants.

“I didn’t know you liked dogs.”

“Of course I like dogs, Henri,” he answers, cracking his back and sounding almost offended. “Cats are the evil ones. I just don’t . . . always get how much people in this country like dogs, you know?”

“I only know this country, Dad.”

“I suppose you do, don’t you?” He sighs. “Well, I grew up with five of them in the yard. Two of them were named Kat and Cink. ‘Four’ and ‘Five’ in Creole. They were happy, we liked them, but we didn’t treat them like children, y’know?”

He motions to two passing bichons frises across the street from us, linked together by a single leather double leash. Both strut proudly, showcasing their matching jackets, harnesses, and boots, all in treated leather. No one can say that wealthy owners in this city don’t go all out for their pups. I’ve picked dogs up from acupuncture sessions.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I try to say, and it comes out sounding like something between a creaky door and a cough. “I was so out of line with all . . . that. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done—that you do for us. Me and Ma, but especially me. I was just . . . It’s just . . . I wanted Columbia too, you know. It was your dream, but it was mine too.”

He nods and it’s not without empathy. “I know you did. And I understand why you did what you did too.”

“You do?”

“I’ve been watching you and your mom change, grow, and become these brand-new people here in this country. I think . . .” He pauses, reassesses, and then speaks. “I think I’m sometimes a little too good at putting my head down and toiling. There’s nothing wrong with looking up.”

Of course a dog would be the only witness present right now.