We picked up right where we’d
left off, which was him treating me
exactly the way he’d treated me as a
thirteen-year-old boy. Like the
creature of habit he was, my father
went straight back into it. “Right!
So where were we? Here, I’ve got all
your favorites. Potato Rösti. A
bottle of Sprite. Custard with
caramel.” Luckily my tastes hadn’t
matured much since the age of
thirteen, so I tucked right in.
While I was eating he got up
and went and picked up this book,
an oversized photo album, and
brought it back to the table. “I’ve
been following you,” he said, and he