I open the door. My dad’s face softens. I’m in a baby-pink Dior dress with the matching pink Prada bag that he got me, the one my mother encouraged me to keep. His eyes smile in recognition.

“You look beautiful,” he says in English.

We walk arm in arm to the living room, where Dani is planted on the couch, lying feet up, with her laptop on her stomach.

“Hey, Dani,” I say. “I’m just going out to dinner with my dad.”

She makes a noise, a distracted “uh-huh,” as her fingers continue typing on her keyboard. I consider for a second inviting her to join us but figure she’s too busy. She just got back from Seattle.

“Have a good night!” my dad says to her.

I follow him out to a waiting Uber. We drive over to a French restaurant called the Cellar. My dad orders a bottle of wine and takes his time smelling the aroma before taking a sip. It’s always strange watching someone smell wine. Closing his eyes. Inhaling the earthy scent. Lips parted in anticipation. Feels oddly intimate, and I look away. I think of what topics we can talk about. I spent so much time worrying if he’s going to cancel that I never prepared for him coming.

“So your mother tells me that you’re settling in nicely,” he says, taking a generous drink and handing me the glass so I can have a sip.

I drink the wine and nod. He signals the waiter and orders for the both of us, as he always does whenever we go out.

“Yeah, it’s nice here,” I say.

“See? What’d I tell you?” He beams. He’s in a pale yellow button-down shirt and a navy tie, which he loosens, just a bit. “This is the kind of thing I wish I had done when I was a kid.” He takes a long, deep breath and his belly swells. “Would have really given me a chance to see what’s out there! To explore!”

I resist the urge to ask, You don’t think you’ve done enough exploring? I reach for a breadstick.

“How was your business meeting?” I ask.

“Good!” he says. “We went to this company, Timaratech, have you heard of them?”

As my dad talks, I drink from his glass. Once he gets going, he can monologue all night. I nod along as he describes the office he went to, the people he met, grateful when the food arrives.

“These ABCs, they all want to impress you with their Chinese,” he says, chuckling.

I put down my fork and look up at him, wondering if I should tell him. “Actually, I had a situation in class with this girl who’s an ABC . . . ,” I say.

“Really?” my dad asks.