The Chair in the Center of the Table

I didn’t even look up. I thought it was another late guest, or one of my father’s business contacts.

Then the kitchen fell silent.

A man appeared in the doorway. He wore a black suit, a dark overcoat, and shoes still damp from the rain. He was tall, composed, carrying the effortless confidence of someone who never needed to raise his voice for people to move aside.

His eyes moved across the dining room, then into the kitchen, until they landed on me.

My hands were still wet, my hair was quickly tied back, and there was a stain of gravy on my sleeve.

He walked straight toward me. Before I could say anything, he gently took my soapy hand, lowered his head, and kissed my knuckles.