"What?"
I smiled.
"Nothing."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Are you staring at me?"
I laughed.
"Maybe."
He smiled.
"Good."
Then his expression softened.
"I waited twelve years for you to see me."
My heart tightened.
I walked toward him.
"And I waited twenty years to see anything."
He took my hand.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I kissed his forehead.
Just above the scar.
Not because I'd forgotten what happened.
But because I was finally beginning to believe that a person could confront the worst thing he'd done without being forever incapable of doing something good.
***
My relationship with my father continued growing.
Every Thursday, we had lunch together.
Sometimes at a little café near his laboratory.
Sometimes at my house.
Sometimes we simply walked through the park while he described the trees he'd loved when I was a child.
I learned that his favorite color was green.
