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"Is that why you didn't come for me, dad?" He nodded tightly. "If you'd known where I was, would you have come for me?"

My father looked at me forlorn and broken. The triumph I'd so longed for was in my grasp. But it was a Pyrrhic victory. "Nothing could have kept me away from you, Kiera."

My dad leaned in across the table and cupped my face in his large hand. I felt tears trickle down my cheek before I'd realized they were forming, and I reached quickly for my napkin, embarrassed to be so emotional. Before I could raise it, my dad gently smoothed my tears away with his thumb.

"I love you, Kiera." My world shrank to my dad's dreamy eyes and his deep voice and the warmth of his palm. "Always. More than anything."

There's no way to catch up on seventeen years in one night, and so we didn't try. We shared glimpses into our lives apart over bites of fried chicken and duckfat burgers and after my dad paid the bill, we walked leisurely in the refreshing night air to The Law Room and continued our conversations on a velveteen sofa in the dimly lit back corner of the bar.

We discovered that we had a shared love of satirical comedy, from Tartuffe and Tom Jones to Family Guy and Bob's Burgers. And our music tastes differed only slightly. "Oh god," I groaned mockingly, "so you're the guy who bought Eminem's latest album, huh? The world has you to blame?"

"Hey, show some respect for your elders," my dad shrugged a shoulder, laughing. "He's like my Bob Dylan, that was the music of my time. You gotta remember, I'm almost forty-four. That's almost as old as Jay-Z."

"God, you're sooooooo old," I teased playfully, poking my dad in the ribs. He jerked and grabbed my hand reflexively to hold me still. After that, it seemed, to me at least, a perfectly natural transition to slide against his side and curl up against him on the sofa. Dad stiffened for a split second, surprised at the sudden closeness, but opened to me and draped his arm over the back of the sofa. His fingers lightly traced my shoulder and arm.

"When you were a baby, I used to play you the Marshall Mathers LP at night, to counteract all of the classical music your mom played for you during the day." I burst out laughing, though I didn't doubt that my dad was serious.

He didn't admit it outright, and I doubted he ever would, but I could read him surprisingly well. And now, being a law student, I had a new sense of comradery and empathy with my dad's younger self. It must have been a difficult, thankless struggle to balance a family, a burgeoning teaching career, the rigors of Penn Law School (let alone the highly competitive admission process) and the petulant demands of a young artistic wife.

"I think it worked. I'm really into hip hop, especially trap music," I felt him looking down at me intrigued, "but I never really got into opera. At least, not the operas that mom performs in. When she'd get stage work, it would usually be those stilted Gilbert and Sullivan operettas or boring French confections. I like verismo. Meaty shit, like Puccini and Verdi."

"I was never a fan of opera, but I liked watching your mother perform. I really liked her in... Rigoletto? Isn't that what opera is called? With the song from the Pillsbury commercial?"

"That's the one," I giggled, playing with the tail of my father's silk tie. "It's weird that you remember the name." I don't usually giggle. But after hours of trying to behave primly, I'd finally joined my father in three rounds of world-famous cocktails at The Law Room. No surprise, the alcohol was loosening me up. "You must have a photographic memory."

My dad grinned and shook his head.

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