“Your cousin Ivan mocked my mustache in his last ad. He said it made me look old. Like ‘an old, balding Ron Burgundy’ were his exact words. Mia . . .” He looked up at me helplessly. “Who is Ron Burgundy?”

“Never mind, Dad,” I said, feeling sad that my father was so unfamiliar with the comic stylings of Will Ferrell. “There’s nothing wrong with looking like Ron Burgundy, and that’s even more reason not to shave it off. You need to grow it back right away, to show Cousin Ivan that he can’t get to you.”

He folded his arms over his face and sighed. “But he has gotten to me, Mia. I’m afraid that was the last straw. Do you have anything to drink?”

I told him about the schnaps and he said, “I meant anything good,” so then I had to explain that it was schnaps, not schnapps, so he agreed to have some.

He took the glass and then got mad because Fat Louie jumped onto his chest (which is actually a compliment; Fat Louie has grown much less athletic in his old age, so when he jumps onto anything, it’s only because he’s put a lot of effort and thought into it).

So I moved Fat Louie back into his little bed and then Dad began to talk . . .

. . . ​and talk, and talk.

He talked all about how he’d been wanting to tell me about Olivia forever, but he hadn’t known how, because he was terrified of what I was going to think.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that a man who has, upon occasion, spelled my name wrong on my birthday cards wouldn’t know I’d be delighted to have a little sister, especially one I could take with me to every single Disney musical on Broadway so people would no longer give me the side-eye for going by myself as an adult.

“It wasn’t as if it was just a one-night stand,” he went on. “I was in love with Elizabeth, but she didn’t want to settle down any more than your mother ever did, let alone raise Olivia in the stifling environment of a palace. And then she died, and it was so terrible. Why do I keep falling for women who are so afraid of commitment, Mia? Why?”

“Well,” I said, thinking about what the Drs. Moscovitz had said. Is there ever a good time to tell your father that his future son-in-law’s parents think he has an Oedipus complex? No. Some things are better kept to yourself.

“Naturally, I can understand why an independent, free-spirited woman like your mother—or Elizabeth—wouldn’t want to settle down with a man like me, who has as many responsibilities as I do—”

“I know you can’t help that you were born a prince,” I interrupted, “but no one is forcing you to stay on the throne, or run for prime minister year after year.”

He looked a bit startled at this. “But I have to. For the good of the country. And what reasonable woman would want to live with my mother, even in a palace on the Mediterranean, in the most beautiful country in the world?”

“None,” I said, thinking about what my mother had said to me on the phone about Dad when we’d discussed Michael’s proposal. “But Grandmère does have her own place, you know. You could always ask her to actually stay there.”

He looked even more alarmed. “Stay in the summer palace? Year-round?”

“The summer palace isn’t exactly an outhouse, Dad. It has seventeen bedrooms.”

“I don’t think your grandmother would hear of it,” he said.

“Dad!” This just goes to show that you can have all the money in the world—even a castle and a crown—and it still can’t buy you happiness. Or common sense. “Listen to yourself. You sound like someone complaining that your diamond shoes are too tight.”

He looked taken aback. “My what?”

“Your diamond shoes. I know you don’t literally own a pair of diamond shoes, but someone quite wise told me that we need to be more appreciative of the things we have. You have to make sacrifices for love, you know.”

“By wearing overpriced, uncomfortable shoes?”

“No, Dad.” I took a deep breath and tried to find another way to make him understand. “It’s like what Robert Frost said in that poem about the road less traveled. It may not get you to where you were headed, but it will get you somewhere, and that place may be even better than where you thought you were going.”

Dad glared at me. “You know, I prefer following maps, Mia. GPS is even better.”

“I know. But I don’t think maps or GPS are working for you anymore, Dad. Prenups and living with Grandmère and keeping all these secrets and promises you made to people who aren’t around anymore? Olivia’s mom has been dead for ten years now. I think the statute of limitations on your promise to her is up.”

He nervously chewed his lower lip, which was upsetting, because then it looked like he had no lips at all, like a bird. I wanted to tell him to stop, but it’s not really the kind of thing you can say to your parent.

“I . . . I don’t know, Mia. I’ve never been a father before. Not like this. With you, I always had your mother. I knew she’d never do the wrong thing.”

“Dad, being a single parent was never easy for Mom, even if to you she might have made it look that way. Do you think she’s having an easy time with Rocky? She’s not. The school sent him home with a note the other day asking that Mom take him to a psychopharmacologist because of his obsession with farting.”

Dad got the faraway look in his eyes he always has when the subject turns to my mother. “That’s not your mother’s fault. The boy has just suffered the loss of his father. And besides, that school obviously isn’t a very good one if it can’t handle a young boy’s perfectly normal interest in flatulence.”