*My Father, My Hero* opens with three walking down a hallway—two women flanking a man like courtiers around a king. But who’s really in charge? The woman in white watches everything, lips sealed, eyes sharp. The man in houndstooth talks loud, but his hands betray him: fidgeting, pointing, overcompensating. Meanwhile, the man in black? Silent. Observant. He doesn’t need to speak—he *knows*. That dinner table isn’t set for food. It’s set for reckoning. 🔍