Then frowned.
"There's a small pull near the waist."
I stepped closer.
"From the tray?"
"Probably."
He touched the fabric gently.
"Nothing serious."
I smiled.
"You sound like you're examining a machine."
He grinned.
"Clothes are machines without motors."
I laughed.
He lowered the garment.
Then looked toward me.
"Have you eaten?"
I rolled my eyes.
"Dad."
"Answer the question."
"Yes."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Today?"
I hesitated.
He sighed.
"That's what I thought."
I laughed.
He picked up his bag.
"Come on. We're getting dinner."
And for the first time in nearly a week, I let someone else decide what came next.
We ate at a small Italian restaurant several streets from my office.
Not an exclusive private dining room.
Not a celebrity restaurant.
Just a comfortable place with red tablecloths, good pasta, and an owner who greeted my father as warmly as he greeted the businessmen at the next table.
My father loved it immediately.
He ordered spaghetti.
I ordered soup and grilled fish.
For a while, we talked about ordinary things.
My mother's garden.
A neighbor's new puppy.
The leaking faucet my father had finally repaired.
A machine he'd restored for an old customer.
Then the conversation became quiet.
My father placed his fork down.
"Tell me what happened."
I stared at him.
"You saw the video."
He nodded.
"I saw part of it."
I looked toward the window.
For several seconds, I didn't speak.
Then I told him everything.
The production concerns.
The reason I'd attended the gala.
The red dress.
The money.
The tray.
The manager's grip.
The phone call.
The canceled launch.
The lawyers.
The workers.
The accusations.
I spoke for nearly half an hour.
My father listened.
He didn't interrupt.
Didn't offer dramatic advice.
Didn't tell me I should have shouted louder or walked away sooner.
When I finished, he sat quietly.