The first time I went to their house to pick her up for our date, he opened the door himself. He was a big man with heavy brows and eyes that seemed to see right through you, sharp as a tailor’s needle. When I greeted him and told him my name, he just nodded slowly, his gaze traveling from my worn shoes up to my face, like he was weighing every part of me and finding nothing worth keeping.

 

“Where are you taking my daughter?” he asked, his voice low and firm.

 

“To the art gallery, sir. Then we’ll get some dinner at that quiet place by the park,” I said, keeping my voice steady.