He simply nodded his approval and introduced me to everyone as his child.
I arrived at my sister’s party, in front of 200 people, in tight black clothing and makeup more elaborate than hers.
He bragged about his straight A’s while I rolled my eyes about how easy his classes were, not like at Harvard where I went.
That’s what it was like between us; he always wanted to prove he was better than me because it was his natural place as a father, and I didn’t let him because he wasn’t.
Papa’s insistence on his intelligence was his way of taking responsibility for my success.
He didn’t raise me, since he spent most of my childhood in the Philippines as a drunk, but he could claim genetic credit.
At a stoplight, I opened the car door, got out and walked, clutching my too-thin tweed coat for warmth.