My paternal grandfather was apparently skilled in the art of face reading. According to this practice, particular facial features are associated with personality traits or certain fortunes. As a youth, my father learned some of the patterns and has retained some of this knowledge as the years have passed.

“I don’t really believe these things,” he usually says. He makes the same remark when discussing Asian astrological animals. “But it’s interesting.”

My paternal grandfather, shortly after my birth, apparently noticed the size and contour of my forehead and opined that my future was bright. “Spacious foreheads,” my father said, “suggest high capacity for intelligence.”

My father no longer looks at my face to predict my future, though he routinely examines my face to assess my spirits. Upon seeing me, either in person or in a photograph, he will share his evaluation of my state of mind and health within fifteen minutes. The evaluation isn’t exactly a reflection of my physical state. I may be physically exhausted, but at ease. My father will immediately pick up on the ease, despite the bags under my eyes, my constant yawning, or my relative reticence.

He’s pretty good.

This assessment is practically part of his usual greeting now.

I recently sent him a photograph. Both subjects are smiling broadly at the camera. The eyes, not the mouths, are what suggest joy in the image.

“You know that photograph you sent me?” my dad said on the phone. “You look good; you look well. You look very happy. It’s obvious that your spirits are high.”

My dad couldn’t see me smile.

“If he’s the reason why you look so happy, then that is good. Ultimately, that is what matters the most: He has to treat you well. You two have to get along. That’s really the only thing that matters. It looks like you two are off to a good start.”

My father is the man who loves me the most in this world. In his explicit assessment was implicit approval.