My father, Simon Cole, sat alone at a table near the back. He wore a simple gray suit that had been pressed carefully that morning. The cuffs were slightly worn. His shoes were polished but old. His hands rested on the table, fingers interlaced. He did not touch the food placed before him. He only watched me, calm and steady, like he always had throughout my life.
Most guests did not know him. Some thought he was a distant relative. Others assumed he was hired staff who wandered into the wrong room. No one bothered to ask. No one except me knew the sacrifices behind that quiet posture.
I had grown up in a small apartment above a bakery. My father worked multiple jobs. He fixed cars. He delivered packages. He washed dishes at night. He never complained. He never told stories about his past. When I asked why we never had visitors or relatives, he would simply say that our family was small but strong.