He looks narrower than I remember, a bit slimmer. My gaze fixates on his posture as he exits the car, still driving that old 1999 Nissan, its colour now faded with age. I crack my knuckles a few times, stealing glances at the clock to ensure the lasagna doesn’t burn. The distance between my front door and his car feels like an expanse, each step stretching out in time as I watch him approach. The bell rings, startles me, and I quickly run my fingers through my hair, trying to compose myself before greeting him.
“Hi,” his words barely reach my ears, as if he’s mouthing them through his coarse beard.
“Hi, Dad,” I force a smile and welcome him in.
As he takes off his jacket, I can’t help but examine him. I tower over him now; I could have sworn he was taller than me. He still sports the same slicked-back hair, with a few white strands poking out. His shoulders have sagged over time, his back bent as if bearing an immense weight. He stands in my hallway, looking so inconspicuous, as if he has become a part of my home, an old painting I rediscover in an abandoned box labelled “memories.”
“Uh, you can just go ahead and sit in the living room. I’ll bring something to drink,” I say, hanging his coat and catching a whiff of the familiar scent of smoke mixed with musty men’s body spray.
Glancing at the clock to ensure the lasagna doesn’t burn, I open a bottle of new champagne and pour two glasses. I gulp mine down, then refill it, wiping the corners of my mouth before moving to the living room.
“Here you go,” I place his drink in front of him, and without hesitation, he swigs it down.
“You must be thirsty,” I sit down, attempting a forced chuckle.
His eyes explore every nook of my home as if searching for hidden mice. My throat feels dry, and I can’t stop stealing glances at the clock, anxious that the lasagna might overcook. I bite the inside of my cheeks, struggling to find the right question to ask. I can’t even remember what he’s been doing for the past 12 years. Did he remarry? Did he retire? What if I say something wrong?
He yawns, setting off warning signals in my head. I try to ignore the flashing red light and point at a painting hanging above the chimney.
“Um, my fiancé made that for me. She’s an art teacher,” I stammer, my words faltering with each gulp.
The corners of his mouth rise, forming a soft grin as he moves closer towards the portrait. His fingertips caress the rough canvas, tracing every shape and line.
“That’s nice,” he says, crossing his hands behind his back, his smile still intact.
I finish the last drop of champagne in my glass and look at the clock. Dinner is ready. I leave him with the painting and rush to the kitchen.
“You can just move to the dining room,” I yell as I take out the lasagna, meticulously cutting it into square pieces.
Having prepared the dining table hours ago, carefully arranging two plates and embroidered napkins, I watch as my father inspects the flowers in the centre. I curse myself for not noticing the yellow petals among the others.
“I should’ve changed the flowers, excuse me,” I apologize, serving him some lasagna and refilling his glass with champagne.
He takes a bite and his lips purse, his face scrunching up as he rushes to drink some water.
“What’s in this?” he coughs.
“Oh, I might have added too much cumin, maybe?” I stand up, ready to fetch him another cup of water, but he gently gestures for me to sit back down.
“Lily, I’ve always told you that over-seasoning is as bad as under-seasoning,” he says, a hint of laughter escaping his lips between the coughs.
I chuckle, but my fists tighten, knuckles turning white. I thought I had measured everything accurately.
“I’m sorry,” I say, dabbing my mouth with the napkin, trying to come up with a solution, contemplating whether I should boil some pasta as a backup.
“It’s okay. We can just order some pizza,” he suggests, taking out his phone from his front pocket and squinting at the screen.
“I’m sorry . . . for ruining dinner,” I murmur, rushing to stand up, nearly knocking over the delicately arranged flowers.
“Lily, please don’t overreact,” he says, moving his napkin aside.
“I’m not overreacting, Dad. I just wanted to cook for you, and now you’re offering to order pizza,” frustration and disappointment tinge my voice.
“For God’s sake, not this again. Lily, I’m not trying to pick a fight. It’s okay. Let’s order first, then we can talk,” he suggests, holding up his phone, ready to dial the number, as I continue gathering the plates of cumin-infused lasagna.
“Just stop. Can you just stop?” I push the plates back onto the table. He stares at me for a moment, his forehead creased, before he returns his phone to his pocket.
He remains seated, pouring himself a third glass of champagne. I feel the ground shaking beneath my feet, or perhaps it’s just my own trembling. I cup my face with my hands, attempting to cool down my flushed cheeks, feeling the weight of the prolonged silence.
“I need to clean up,” I manage to speak, my voice filled with a mix of frustration and sadness.
“I should probably just leave,” he stands up, his voice tinged with a hint of resignation.
“Uh, yes. . .” I glance at the clock, realizing that time has slipped away during this strained reunion.
“Oh, before I go, I wanted to give you this.” He pats his coat for a moment before realizing that he left the gift in his car.
“Uh, do you mind coming with me?” his features soften, his brown eyes sparkling, a detail I’ve never noticed before, or perhaps it’s something new.
Without saying a word, I grab my jacket and lead him out of the house. The robust December wind greets both of us as it slaps our faces, forcing us to avert our gaze. We power through the snowstorm, and with every step closer to the car, I feel weaker. The wind pushes me back, but my father catches me, his hands gripping my arms.
“I’ve got you,” he assures me, and I give him a reassuring look before watching him open the car door.
I could have just let him order pizza.
He takes out a cylinder-shaped object wrapped in brown packaging.
“It’s for you,” he nudges me with the gift. I struggle to remove the wrapping, my fingers numb from the cold. But as I glimpse the corner of it, warmth envelops me. It’s the salad bowl my mother used to adore when I was young. Whenever it made an appearance at the table, it meant my father was coming over for dinner.
“Thank you,” I whisper, holding the bowl close to my heart. My father rubs his palms together, preparing to say goodbye.
“Uh, it seems like there’s a snowstorm tonight. Why don’t you stay over for the weekend? Um, we can still order pizza if you want,” I suggest, a glimmer of hope in my voice.
“Sure.”
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