On one side of the street are rows of the elegant homes I’ve come to expect from Paris. On the other is a large redbrick building, covered almost entirely in dark ivy. Flat-roofed and elegant, it takes up almost the entire length of the block, surrounded by a tall wrought-iron fence.

I don’t know what I expected, perhaps an apartment building or a row home. Certainly not whatever this estate seems to be.

I approach the gate and swallow hard. I’ve crossed an ocean for this; there is no turning back now.

I tilt my face up to the sky and say a simple prayer to something I don’t believe in.

Don’t let me cry in front of him.

The gate is closed, but unlocked. It whines as I press it open.

The front lawn of the building is empty, neatly manicured in rows in shrubbery.

I climb the steps and approach the double doors, tall and set with glass. Through them I see a white-checkered tile vestibule leading into a long hallway.

Next to the doors, there is a plaque.

SAINT BOSCO’S SCHOOL. EST. 1489.

Saint Bosco’s. It’s the same school Pascal attends. Is it a coincidence? Do I even believe in those anymore?

The main hall is empty, but from upstairs comes the rustle of voices and the muffled steps of feet. Classes must start soon. I don’t have much time.

I make my way down the hall, scanning the row of offices for a familiar name. He has to be here. She said he’d be here.

Ah.

My heart lurches.

It’s right there, his name on a gold plate, drilled into the second to last door.

I don’t bother knocking. It’s a courtesy he doesn’t deserve.

Three, two, one. I take one breath to close my eyes and steady myself.

The brass knob is freezing under my palm. The door opens easily, but still, it is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

In the end it’s so simple, this moment I’ve spent a lifetime imagining.

It’s smaller, harsher in the light of reality. There are no tears, no screams. It’s just a moment, one like a million others.

It’s just a man sitting at a desk.

He’s here.

I thought I’d prepared myself, but there was no preparing for the brute force of having to look him in the eyes.

He’s sitting at the desk, a startled look on his face.

For someone who has loomed so large in my brain, he looks so small here in front of me, his mouth in an O, a cup of tea held halfway up to his lips.

“Hi, Dad.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

He springs up from his desk, then sits back down. I stand awkwardly behind the empty chair across from him and wait to be invited to sit.