My father arrives in Edinburgh two days later. No warning. One moment I am reviewing structural reports with Daniel. The next, reception calls to tell me an Arda Osei-Kaya is asking for me. I go downstairs. He stands when he sees me.
“Baba.”
The word leaves before I think about it. He hugs me hard.
“You look tired.”
“I am starting to believe this family only has one greeting.”
He laughs. At dinner that night, he says nothing about celestial records until we have finished eating. Then he places his fork down.
“Your mother thinks I came because I am worried.”
“You did.”
“Yes.”
I smile. My father has never seen the point of denying obvious things. He asks about Saoirse. Not because my mother told him. Because her coat is hanging by my door.
“She forgot it.”
“Of course.”
“Baba.”
He raises both hands. We move on. I tell him about the second test and Alexandria. He listens. When I finish, he asks, “Do you want to do it?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is different from no.”
“It could hurt Saoirse.”
“She has no voice?”
“She does.”
“Then why are you speaking for her?”
I stare at him. Apparently everyone in my life has decided I need this lesson. He takes a drink of water.
“When you were seven, I wanted to let the Council continue.”
I did not know that.
“Your mother said no.”
“You agreed.”
“Eventually.”
“Why?”
He looks toward the window.
“Because I realised I was more frightened of not knowing what you were than I was concerned about what all that knowing would do to you.”
He turns back.
“That was about me. Not you.”
I sit with it. My father rarely talks about those years. This tiny piece is enough to rearrange some old memories. Before he goes to bed, he stops beside one of my framed bridge drawings.
“You always draw these.”
“Apparently.”
He studies it for a long time.
“Maybe the stars were not silent.”
I groan.
“Please don’t become poetic now.”
He laughs.
“Sleep, oğlum.”
For the first time in days, I do.