I’d walked into. This wasn’t an invitation. It was theater. My father had needed an audience for his cruelty, and I’d provided one.
I watched the waitstaff glide in and out with trays of hors d’oeuvres—seared scallops, truffle risotto, champagne in crystal flutes. One young server, a woman maybe twenty-three with kind eyes, hesitated near my table. continue reading …
