When I was little, I pictured him as this larger-than-life figure. I believed he must have been living an incredible life if it was worth leaving my brother and me behind for. I asked my mother for years when my father was coming back. I wanted to show him how good I’d gotten at hopscotch and sounding out my letters. “Soon,” my mother would promise me. I think she believed it too; that’s the worst part.

I waited for him the morning of my fourth birthday as my mother tied lilac ribbons in my hair.

I waited for him to appear in the audience of the Christmas pageant where I had a solo in “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”

I waited for him after my hands slipped off the metal bars at Tompkins Square Park and my ankle snapped. William carried me home and held a washcloth to my forehead as I became feverish. The bone healed and the fever receded, but still my father didn’t come.

There was no moment in my life too important to miss.

I grew up and I realized that “soon” meant “never,” and he morphed into something else in my head. A villain from a play with a cape and an evil plot. It was easier to believe that than to believe I might be someone worth leaving behind.

Christmases and birthdays and funerals ticked by and he never darkened our door. He might as well have been dead, because he was dead to me. It was a slow death. One he earned with each act of neglect.

Then I stopped thinking about him at all. It wasn’t until my magic started acting up that I considered finding him.

And now he’s sitting in front of me, in another sort of resurrection.

“So!” he exclaims. “I’ve ought to be off to class soon, but I would love to catch up. We have”—he glances at a clock on his wall—“six minutes.”

Six minutes. How do I distill a life down into six minutes? He hasn’t seen me since I was a baby, and he gives me six whole minutes to catch him up.

“I’m at Haxahaven now. I came to Paris with a few friends for a holiday.” It seems like the wrong place to start, but I don’t know where else to begin. I can’t very well begin by asking him for information about my power.

“You teach at a school of magic?” I prod. I know what Saint Bosco’s is because of Pascal, but I’d like to hear more about my father’s role here.

“Ah, not quite like Haxahaven. Older and larger, more prestigious to be sure. I’ve always thought of Haxahaven as more of a country institution. It’s quaint.”

“I’m an instructor at that quaint institution.” I’ve tried so hard to remain polite, but the facade slips for a moment.