He looks narrower than I remember, a bit slimmer. My gaze is fixed on his posture as he exits the car; he’s still driving that old 1999 Nissan, though its color has faded. I crack my knuckles a few times, glancing at the clock to ensure the lasagna doesn’t burn. The distance between my front door and his car feels like miles as I watch him approach. The bell rings, startling me, and I run my fingers through my hair before greeting him.

“Hi.” His voice is barely audible, as if he’s mouthing it 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 now hover above him; I could have sworn he was taller than me. He still has the same slicked-back hair, with a few white strands poking out. His shoulders have drooped over time, his back bent as if carrying immense weight. He looks so trivial standing in my hallway, blending with the light-grey wall like an old painting uncovered in an abandoned box labeled “memories.”

“Uh, you can just sit in the living room. I’ll bring something to drink.” I hang his coat, sniffing the usual scent of smoke mixed with musty body spray.

I glance at the clock to make sure the lasagna doesn’t burn. After looking at the oven, I open a bottle of champagne and pour two glasses. I chug mine, then refill it. Wiping the corners of my mouth, I move to the living room.

“Here you go,” I say, placing his drink in front of him. Without hesitation, he swigs it whole.

“You must be thirsty.” I sit down, forcibly chuckling.

His eyes inspect every nook of my home as if examining it for mice. My throat feels dry, and I can’t stop looking at the clock; the lasagna shouldn’t burn. I bite the inside of my cheek, struggling to think of a question. I can’t 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, initiating 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 … uh, she’s an art teacher.” I can’t seem to form coherent sentences, gulping after each word.

The corners of his mouth rise, creating a soft grin as he moves closer to the portrait. His fingertips caress the rough canvas, tracing every shape and line.

“That’s nice,” he says, crossing his hands behind his back, still smiling.

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, attentively cutting it into square pieces.

I prepared the dining table hours ago, carefully placing two plates and some embroidered napkins. Father examines the flowers in the middle of the table, and I curse myself for not noticing the yellow petals poking among the others.

“I should’ve changed the flowers, excuse me.” I serve him some lasagna and refill his glass with more champagne.

He takes a bite and purses his lips, squinting as he rushes to drink some water.

“What is in this?” he coughs.

“Oh, I might have added too much cumin, maybe?” I stand up, preparing to get him another cup of water, but he gestures for me to sit back down.

“Lily, I’ve always told you over-seasoning is as bad as under-seasoning,” he says, a laugh escaping his lips between coughs.

I chuckle, tightening my fists until my knuckles turn white. I thought I had measured everything.

“I’m sorry,” I smear my mouth with a napkin, trying to determine whether I can quickly boil some pasta.

“It’s okay. We can just order some pizza,” he says, taking his phone out of his front pocket and squinting at the screen.

“I’m sorry … for ruining dinner.” I rush to stand up, almost knocking over the flowers I delicately placed.

“Lily, please don’t overreact.” He moves his napkin to the side.

“I’m not overreacting, Dad. I just wanted to cook for you, and here you are offering to order pizza.”

“For God’s sake, not with this again. Lily, I’m not trying to pick a fight; it’s okay. Let’s order first, then we can talk.” He holds up his phone, carefully dialing the number as I gather the cumin lasagna plates.

“J-just stop, can you just stop!” I push the plates back on the table. He stares at me momentarily; his forehead creases as he returns his phone to his pocket.

He remains seated, pouring himself a third glass of champagne. I can feel the floor shaking beneath my feet; maybe it’s me. I cup my face with my hands, trying to cool down my skin. I sense my cheeks reddening with every second we sit longer in silence.

“I need to clean up,” I manage to speak.

“I should probably just leave,” he stands up.

“Uh, yes…” I glance at the clock.

“Oh, before I go, I wanted to give you this.” He pats his coat for a bit before realizing he left the gift in his car.

“Uh, do you mind coming with me?” His features soften. Did he always have brown eyes? I’ve never noticed the twinkle in his pupils; perhaps it’s new.

I grab my jacket and lead him out of the house without saying a word. The robust December wind greets both of us, slapping our faces and forcing us to look away. We power through the snowstorm, and with every step closer to the car, I get weaker. The wind pushes me back, and my father catches me. “I got you,” he grips my arms. I give him an assuring look and watch him open his car door.

I could’ve just let him order pizza.

He takes out a cylinder shape covered in brown packaging.

“It’s for you.” He nudges me with the object. I struggle to remove the wrapping as my fingers have gone numb from the cold, but when I glimpse the corner of it, I feel warmth envelop me. It’s the salad bowl my mother used to adore when I was young. Whenever it appeared at the table, it meant my father was coming over for dinner. “Thank you,” I hold the bowl close to my heart. My father rubs his palms together as he prepares to say goodbye.

“Uh, it seems like there’s a snowstorm tonight. Why don’t you stay over for the weekend? Um, I guess we can still order pizza if you want?”

“Sure.”