"Dad, I have a question," I asked as my wife departed, clearing the dinner she'd prepared. Chicken cacciatore, his---and my---favorite, a meal which was a sort of breaking-in of her new kitchen.

"Shoot," Dad prompted, sipping his wine.

My wife reentered abruptly. To distract her from our conversation, as she reached for more dishes from the dining room table, I kissed her hand. She smiled, and when she was gone, I continued, "Before I ask, Dad, you have to promise to tell me."

"Tell you? What'd you mean?"

t promise. Okay. Promise to tell me."

Resting hands near the crystal, he shrugged, but nodded.

"I've been wondering for a while..." I wiped my mouth. "Dad," I sighed. "Are you proud of me?"■