restaurants, especially not in front of his friends. Even on my birthdays, he usually limited himself to a brief greeting and an
envelope containing money.
My father had always provided me with everything, but he had never been affectionate. He didn’t hug me. He didn’t tell me
he loved me. He almost never spoke about my mother either. All I knew was that she had died a few months after I was born.
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Whenever I asked who I looked like as a child, my father would say:
“You have your mother’s eyes.”
Then he would fall silent and walk away. But that evening, he seemed like a completely different man. He had reserved a
private table at an expensive restaurant and wore the black suit he had kept in his closet for years. In the center of the table
sat a thick brown envelope with my full name written across it.
