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A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Two for the price of one pregnancy. Sounds like good business to me."

Our food arrives, saving me from having to respond to this bizarre observation. We eat in silence for a few minutes.

"I didn't realize you and Tess were so serious," he says finally, his eyes on his plate.

"It...developed quickly," I reply, choosing my words carefully.

"She’s an excellent choice for you."

"She is," I agree. "We’re a good match."

"Good," he says awkwardly. "That's good."

Another silence falls. I take a bite of salmon, barely tasting it as I steal glances of my father across the table. He seems different today—less critical, more thoughtful. Or maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see.

"Your mother is thrilled, naturally," he says after a moment. "She's already talking about baby names."

The image of my elegant, reserved mother getting excited about baby names makes me smile.

"She'll probably have a list of suggestions for you by the end of the week." He cuts a piece of steak with surgical precision. "She's always wanted grandchildren."

"I know." The guilt I've been carrying – about the unplanned pregnancy, about not telling my parents, about all of it – shifts uncomfortably in my chest.

"And you?" my father asks, his eyes meeting mine directly. "How do you feel about becoming a father?"

The question catches me off guard. My father has never been one for discussing feelings. Facts, figures, results—these are his currency. Not emotions.

"Terrified," I admit before I can stop myself. "Excited. Overwhelmed." I swallow hard, staring at my plate. "I have no idea what I'm doing."

I expect a lecture. About responsibility, about planning, about how I should have been more careful. Instead, my father does something completely unexpected.

He laughs.

Not mockingly, not dismissively. A genuine laugh that crinkles the corners of his eyes in a way I haven't seen in years.

"Welcome to fatherhood, son," he says, and there's a warmth in his voice I barely recognize. "None of us has any idea what we're doing."

I lay my fork down as I stare at my father, this stranger who looks like Bill Astor but speaks with a warmth I barely recognize. Something shifts inside me—a door cracking open just wide enough to let a dangerous thought slip through: maybe, just maybe, I can tell him the truth. The whole messy, complicated truth about Tess and me, about how what started as a desperate lie somehow turned into the most real thing in my life.

"Dad," I start, intentionally using the word dad instead of Bill, my voice lower than I intended. I clear my throat and try again. "There's something you should know about Tess and me."

He sets down his knife and fork, giving me his full attention—another rarity. I mean, did he fall and hit his head orsomething? Usually, he's half-listening while mentally reviewing spreadsheets or planning his next meeting.

"I'm listening," he says simply.

I take a deep breath. "Our relationship didn't exactly start the way I told you. We weren't dating when I brought her to the Whidbey Island wedding."

My father's expression doesn't change, but curiosity flickers in his eyes.

"We had an arrangement," I continue, the words coming faster now that I've started. "I needed a suitable date for these weddings to get you and Mom off my back. She needed some assistance with getting a audition with the Seattle Symphony. So we agreed to fake date for a couple of months."

I wait for the explosion, for the disappointment, for the lecture about how our family doesn't lie. It doesn't come. My father just watches me, his face surprisingly free of judgment.

"But then...something happened," I say, staring at my water glass. "We got to really know each other. And I started to feel things I didn't expect to feel. Then we found out about the pregnancy, and everything accelerated." I look up at him. "I'm not lying about how I feel about her now. That part is real. The most real thing in my life, actually."

My father is silent for so long that I start to wonder if he heard me. Finally, he sighs—not angrily, but like he's releasing something heavy.

"When I was twenty-seven," he says, his voice thoughtful, "I was terrified of becoming a father."