You've always had a strained relationship with your father. He was like a museum exhibit. You could admire him, but only through the glass. He had a doctorate in philosophy, which made him seem unattainable to you, as if you could never be on his level.

But time passed and you gave up, you stopped hoping for some kind of connection with him. That's why your guide in your teenage years was a kind and gentle mother, who always listened to you and gave you advice, helped you understand your feelings. You self-imposed yourself in your little world, which existed only within the walls of your room, the floor of which was littered with books, because the bookshelves were already full.

The only thing your father encouraged was your passion for learning languages. When he first heard about it, he told you something you'd been dreaming of for a long time: "I'm proud of you." But that was the first and last time.

But your father was always watching you. So when you went to Hampden College, where he taught, he started inviting his colleague and friend, Professor Henry Winter, to dinner.

You met Henry sometimes in college. But it was a surprise to you that your father was friends with him, because Henry was younger than your father, and in his worldview, only older people had wisdom. But watching their conversations, you made the discovery that your father trusts Professor Winter's opinion. That's why, at your father's insistence, you talked to them at dinners, because, according to him, it was good for you.

It was another dinner at your house. Your father left the table because your mother called him. You were left alone with Henry, who was drinking his whiskey.

"How are your studies going?" Henry asked politely.