in a booth at the 24-hour Macca’s down the road. Skye is sitting next to me. She literally spit-sprays

some of her caramel milkshake all over the table because she’s laughing so hard at Dad. She’s too young to be embarrassed by what’s going on. Me, on the other hand, I’m pulling my school hoodie over my head as far as it’ll go. 

Dad is standing on his seat.
Singing.
Opera.
Out loud.

Dad takes a bow. Skye claps. “Again! Again!”

“No! Please not again,” I plead as I look around at the bleary-eyed early risers staring at us. Some look confused by this scene of a middle-aged man singing opera at the top of his lungs to his daughters. Others look annoyed. They’ve probably come off the night shift and didn’t ask for opera with their fries. But most people are amused, either laughing or smiling. Which would be nice, if I knew for sure they weren’t laughing AT him. But I don’t know that

 . . . which is why I ask him to sit down. 

“Please, Dad, your hotcakes are getting cold and I know how much you hate not-hot hotcakes.” 

Dad’s face lights up. You can see the very moment an idea lands in my dad's head. His eyes widen, his mouth curls into a half-smile and the skin on his cheek lifts up as if it’s being pulled by an invisible string. 

“I’ve got an idea!”

“Daaaaad! Sit downn.”

“Who wants hotcakes”

I tell him that we already have hotcakes but he’s not talking to me. He’s telling everyone else. EVERYONE else! He hops off the chair and approaches randoms who are trying ti enjoy their breakfast in peace. 

“Would you like some hotcakes? I’m buying!” says Dad.

“Oh, yes, please,” replies a woman wearing a nurse’s uniform.