They left twenty minutes later, after a cup of tea and a tour of the cabin that seemed to reassure them I wasn't living in complete squalor. Fao had finally emerged from behind the counter — the situation in his sweatpants now mercifully under control — and my mother hugged him before she went. She whispered something in his ear that made his eyes go soft.
My father shook Fao's hand at the door, a firm grip that Fao returned without flinching.
I watched their car disappear down the gravel road, Fao's arms wrapped around me from behind.
"What did she say to you?" I asked.
"She said 'take care of my daughter.'" His arms tightened. "I told her I would."
"And my father?"
"He shook my hand. Firm grip." A pause. "I think that means he approves."
I laughed, even though nothing was funny. "
