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“A partner. A girl. Your mother tells me you’ve been seeing someone.” He picked up a fork. “It’s time. You’re twenty-six years old. It’s about time you settled down. She must be a remarkable person, to have caught you. I hope she has sense.”

He began, calmly, to eat his eggs.

I looked at my mother. She looked back at me. She had one eyebrow arched so high it was practically in orbit.

I looked at Maksim. He was sitting perfectly still, with his hands folded, looking directly at my father’s forehead and pretending very hard to be a piece of furniture.

Oh my God, I thought. He thinks it’s a girl. He’d heard partner from Mom, filled in the rest himself, and gone on eating.

I could stay quiet. I could let it slide. I could say yeah, she’s great, and find a way to break it later, at a funeral, or a wedding, or a Thanksgiving, in the sort of tone people use for sad news.

I put down the toast.

“Dad,” I said. “I have something to tell you.”

He kept eating. “Yes?”

“It’s not a girl.”

He looked up.

“It’s a guy.”

The fork stopped halfway to his mouth.

“It’s a man,” I said, and my voice came out steadier than I expected. “I’m not gay, I don’t think. I never was. But I fell in love with a guy, and it’s the real thing, Dad. It’s not a phase. It’s not an experiment. He’s the person I want to be with. And he’s sitting right here.”

Complete silence.

I heard a clock tick. I heard Jenny stop breathing. I heard my father’s throat make a small, strangled sound.

He choked.

It was a spectacular choke. He grabbed at his tie. He thumped his chest with a fist. His face went first white, then scarlet, then a deep, alarming shade of plum, and my mother shot out of her chair and got behind him and began to pound his back, crying “Richard! Richard, breathe! Jennifer, get the water!”

“I’ve got it!” yelled Jenny, and flung a glass in his general direction.

“ Son, “ wheezed my father. He clutched the water. He drank. He coughed. “ Son. What did you say?”

“I said I’m with a man.”

“When did you become—” He waved a hand, helplessly. “You are a playboy! You had a girl in every port! Your mother has a scrapbook of your girlfriends! Is this a joke? Is this a prank? “

“It’s not a prank, Dad.”

“Then it is a phase.”

“It’s not a phase.”

“Then it’s a stunt. It’s for the newspapers. It’s for publicity.”

“It’s love, Dad!”

“It is—” He stopped. He wiped his mouth with his napkin. He drew a long, slow breath through his nose, the way he does before he fires someone. I saw him gather himself. I saw the cold, hard, unreadable mask come down. “Very well. Who is he?”

“You’ve met him.”

His eyes turned.