Dinner was a tuna fish sandwich and a good book in bed. I turned in at midnight, determined to sleep eight hours without nightmares. Partial success. But even after being jolted awake with the usual shakes and a rapid heartbeat, I was able to calm down enough to fall back asleep.

I got up early on Sunday to prepare something warm and fuzzy for Dad, deciding on a breakfast of French toast and vegetarian breakfast links, with fresh orange juice and Ethiopian coffee. Even if no one ate anything, at the very least my place would smell good. Unlike Koby’s house, my interior decor was generic—basic furniture and a serviceable kitchen. The best part of my tiny apartment was the fireplace mantel that had once been filled with glass figurines and family photos representing better times in my life. Now it lay bare. I had meant to fix it up with homey touches, but after a maniac had trashed and violated my personal space, the energy was lacking. I needed an infusion of something.

Dad was on time, as usual, casual yet handsome in a black leather bomber jacket, a dark green polo shirt, and black jeans. He greeted me with a kiss on the cheek and a controlled smile.

“What’s cookin’, good-lookin’?” I said to him.

“Something smells good.” He unzipped his jacket and took it off.

“I’ll take that.” I opened the guest closet and hung it up. It was incredibly heavy and made the wire hanger sag. “Thanks again for Friday.”

“Our pleasure.”

I hesitated a fraction just to make sure he had nothing else to add. He didn’t. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“I am now.”

“Then … let’s eat.” I had set my small dinette table for two, complete with cloth napkins. I poured him some coffee and orange juice as he speared a piece of French toast onto his plate.

“I should wash,” he told me.

“Lucky for you, I have running water.”

He smiled and washed his hands, saying the ritual prayers before he bit into his breakfast. I drowned my French toast in maple syrup and dug in. “Not bad, if I say so myself.”

“Delicious.” Dad cut the bread into neat little bites. “So … you found the baby’s mother. I’m very proud of you.”

“Thank you.”

“Your interviews must have gone well.”

“You gave me some good advice.”

“Still, you must have executed it with aplomb.”

“I do listen when you talk to me.”

He stopped eating for a fraction of a second. “I know that.”

“You’re irritated at me.”

“Not at all.”

“Yes at all. Would you like to say what’s on your mind?”

“No, I’d like to enjoy this delicious French toast and help you with whatever you need help with.”

“I can’t concentrate if you’re mad.”

“That’s fine, because I’m not mad.”

“Did you like him?”

“Very much.”

“But …”

The Loo put down his fork and knife, then looked me squarely in the eye. “No buts, Cynthia. He’s a good guy. End of story.”