My daughter and I meet at the observation deck on the 84th floor, the one nobody visits on weekdays. We've been doing this since she was nine.
She's twenty-three now. Lives three states away.
When she's in town, she texts me one word: Deck?
Today she's quiet. Tells me she's thinking of quitting the job she fought two years to get.
I remember the day the training wheels came off. She was furious I hadn't asked first. Rode into a hedge, got back on, rode straight.
I don't say any of that. The whole city below us like we're the only two who get to see it from up here.
'You'll figure it out,' I say. 'You always do.'
She rolls her eyes. But she's smiling.
Back at my apartment, she peels the $2 garage-sale sticker off the lamp I bought last spring, smooths the shade, and says, 'Dad.' That's all.