“It’s perfect,” I say with a smile. Truth be told, I could probably be dining with my father in a run-down shack in the woods and it would still feel perfect. I can’t quite get over the fact that this is really happening. I’m really here, sitting across the table from the father I thought I’d lost forever, talking about something as normal as a salad.

“I’m sure you’re used to restaurants that are much fancier,” says my father after a moment.

“No, not really,” I say.

“Oh come on,” my father says, leaning forward and winking at me. “You can tell your old man. You probably eat at all the hot spots. The Ivy. Mr. Chow’s. All those places I read about in People. I read all the celebrity magazines to see if you’re in there, you know.”

“Um, no,” I say with a shrug. “I really don’t eat at places like that. I usually just eat backstage. Before the show.”

“Well, that’s nice,” my father says, leaning back in his seat and nodding approvingly. “You don’t brag about your lifestyle. I like that. It’s classy.”

I’m confused by how he’s acting, but I force a pleasant smile. I’m trying to put myself in his shoes. He probably feels really out of step with my life. I feel bad for him.

“It was nice to meet Lynda and Alison last night,” I say as a waiter fills our water glasses and quickly disappears.

“They enjoyed meeting you too,” my father says. “In fact, Alison was talking just this morning about how much she hoped we could buy a house so we could all be a family together.”

I smile. “That would be really nice,” I say.

“It would be nice to have you home,” he says.

We make small talk for a while, while we wait for our food, but I’m hanging on his every word, no matter how trivial.

“I just can’t believe this,” I say to my father after our entrees have been delivered. My salad, which the waiter tossed at the table, looks great, and my father looks pleased with his steak, plantains and rice.

“The food?” my dad asks, his mouth already full with a big bite of steak. “I know, it’s great, isn’t it?”

“No,” I say. “Not the food. I mean, it’s good. But I mean this. Me and you. I can’t believe I’m eating lunch with my father. I thought I would never see you again.”

“Yeah,” my father says as he puts another forkful of steak into his mouth.

“What made you start writing to me?” I ask. It’s the question I’m dying to know the answer to.

“I missed you,” my father says simply. He takes another sip of water. “Because you’re my little girl.”