I sit next to him. The clock on the wall ticks. I want to pinch myself. Am I really sitting next to my father? It’s funny. I never thought about him much, never really wanted to know. I had my mom and I thought that was all I needed. But now I feel like a piece of me—a piece I didn’t even know was missing—is now in place. He sighs. It doesn’t seem to bother him that we aren’t talking. And then I think of something.

“Um,” I say. “I found this. I mean, I took this from your desk.” I pull the yellowed scrap of paper from my pocket. “I stole it. Just like your book. I’m sorry.” I can’t take the guilt anymore.

He reaches out and touches the paper but doesn’t look at it, doesn’t read it. He knows what it is. He closes his eyes and recites, “Las estrellas no son la misma cosa para todos.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s from a book. The Little Prince.”

“I know that book! Just a minute.” I run to my room. The bed is unmade, like I left it. My pajamas are still in a messy pile next to the laundry basket. And my book is on my nightstand.

“It’s my favorite,” I say when I return to the couch.

He takes the worn copy from my hands and holds it like it’s something delicate, like a flower. Or maybe something dangerous, like a bomb. “The stars are different to different people. That’s what this quote says. It’s from the end of the book, before the sad ending.”

“You must like this book, too? Like my mom does?”

“I do, Matilde, I do. My sister, Mechi, copied these words for me before I went to college in Minnesota. And your mom and I used to read the book together. I’ve had this a long, long time.” He hands me back the paper I stole from him. “I know these words by heart. You keep them.” A gift.

I tuck it into the pages of my copy of the book and hug it close.

“The author, you know, was a pilot. He was an expert at finding his way. But it’s funny,” Francisco says, “that his most famous book is about a pilot who gets lost. And that’s how he finds what he’s looking for.”

I don’t say anything. I’m not sure I understand what he’s saying. But I know that I love this book and that he loves this book. And a big balloon rises in my chest. A feeling like something big growing, something light and airy and perfect and beautiful. We love something the same. Me and my father.