“Richard, she can’t stop looking at you,” my mom said, with a big silly grin.Article continues after advertisement
After only three months, my father was back in my life. And it was all because of the n-word.
“Can’t stop looking at her either,” he said.
My face heated up with delight. I pressed my cold fingertips against my hot cheeks.
Leaning back against the red leather booth, he seemed at ease in my favorite Boston restaurant. He opened a fortune cookie with one hand, his long fingers prying it apart. I savored his smell, a blend of sweet, citrusy cologne and the richness of tobacco smoke, and studied him like he was one of the seven wonders of the world, especially the crinkles under his eyes when he smiled.
