I pushed open the front door. David was busy in the kitchen.
"You're back?"
He came out carrying a bowl of soup, smiling at me.
"You look awful. I made pork rib soup. You barely ate anything this morning."
His shirtsleeves were rolled to his forearms, apron tied neatly at his waist.
A completely different man from the one holding another child in that villa's garden four hours ago.
"Meeting's over?" I took the bowl.
"Yeah, dragged on all morning."
He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Drink the soup. You don't look well."
The meat fell right off the bone, tender the way I liked it.
Just like the soup from that little restaurant outside the university gates, all those years ago.
Back then, his monthly allowance was a few hundred dollars. Taking me out for a bowl of pork rib soup meant saving up for three days.
When the check came, he'd always sneak the last piece of rib into my bowl when he thought I wasn't looking.
I teased him for being cheap. He tapped my nose and said, "Once I'm making real money, I'll cook this for you every single day."
He kept that promise.