It would have been an average father-daughter spring break in Paris if not for that courtyard party we attended 13 years ago.
The first time I saw Audrey there, I thought she was sexy. Turns out, my father did too. That night, somewhere amid the clinking silverware and Charles Aznavour playlists, our futures were being quietly rewritten.
Audrey, in her mid-30s, was the epitome of grace and artistic flair, an award-winning production designer for the opera, and the definition of French-Vietnamese beauty.
Her hair was held up by two red chopsticks, and the rest of her was fitted in an orange satin dress. This was her normal attire.