As much as I’ve tried to convince him otherwise, my father still thinks he needs to accompany me to my first gynecologist appointment. To him, it’s an important rite of passage.

“I’m sure Tía Camila would’ve taken me,” I say, glancing out the car window. It’s bad enough that we’re going to this appointment together, but it’s also uncomfortably close to the hospital where he works, which means we’re going to run into at least three of his patients. “She likes doing this sort of stuff, and we could’ve worked it around her business trips.”

“Well, you’re my daughter,” he says, pulling into a parking spot. “And this is the sort of thing parents live for.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

Dad has patches of gray sneaking into his black hair, and there’s an indent in the tan skin of his nose where his glasses rest. When he isn’t wearing a lab coat, he dresses in old-man clothes like sweater vests and khakis. I wish his lack of fashion sense were the most embarrassing thing about him, but it isn’t.

Inside, he actually pulls out a clipboard with questions to ask the doctor. I might just die. The waiting room feels too small and smells like cheap air freshener.