Dad and I sat comfortably on the couch together. Our shoulders touched and our knees probably did too. This was our sitcom family moment, 20 years too late. 

I visit with my father a few times a year and toggle between my “broken woman” and “dutiful daughter” personas, a little pissed about his absence during those complex and sometimes mortifying teenage years. (I’ll never forget the times my friends would ask about my dad, and I would say he’s a traveling business man. I mean, he’s an electrician.) Before I leave his house, I dutifully quiz him on his diet and finances. He’s always consuming too much canned foods or spending too lavishly. A “few times a year,” is probably enough for both of us. 

But here we were, half-pretending to be close and half-experiencing an unusual father/daughter bond. He was ecstatically bragging about the beef noodle soup recipe he recently perfected, born from an old family recipe. I was happy to see him so enthusiastic, especially around me. 

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