The restaurant Grace's father chose for their meeting was costly and intimidating, with discussions held in hushed tones and every aspect geared to emphasize the establishment's prominence. Grace arrived five minutes early to give herself time to prepare for a talk she'd been avoiding for three years.
Richard Chen appeared older than his book jacket photo indicated, his hair greyer than silver, and his face etched with lines that screamed of stress rather than wisdom. When she approached the table, he stood and extended his hand in a professional rather than paternal gesture.
Grace. "You look good."
"Hello, Dad."
They sat across from one other at a table that seemed too big for two people, the stillness stretching between them like a canyon formed by three years of wrath and despair. G
