My 74-year-old father invited me to dinner and offered me a drink. I accepted, but the next morning I woke up feeling terribly ill and went to the hospital. When the doctor saw my blood test results, his expression suddenly changed. He asked, “Have you suspected lately that you might be pregnant?”

He's never been particularly affectionate. He rarely hugs me, almost never tells me he loves me, and usually only calls to ask if I've eaten.

But last Monday his voice sounded different.

—Sarah, come over tonight. I've made your favorite dinner.

I burst out laughing.

—Dad, you haven't cooked anything more complicated than scrambled eggs in twenty years.

"Then tonight will be special," he replied.

There was something in his voice that made me accept.

When I arrived, the table was beautifully set. There was homemade salad, roasted potatoes, fresh bread, and two glasses next to a pitcher of fruit drink.

My father was wearing his best shirt.

—What are we celebrating?— I asked.

She smiled nervously.

Can't a father have dinner with his daughter?

We sat down. He poured the drinks and raised his glass.

—For your health, darling. And for all the years we still have left together.

Notice that his hand was trembling.

—Dad, are you okay?