Sometime before I was happy, on Fourth of July weekend in 2011, I moved out of my home and first marriage, and then my laptop quit.
This is a problem for a writer. I’d spent most of the holiday scrubbing the cabinets of a rental home, fixing a crack in the ceiling, painting the living room.
My parents drove to town to help me through the move, or to try to understand what was going on, or to be sad with me. Whatever the reason, they were there. “It’s fine,” I told them. “I’m fine.” My father had been a handyman but strokes took most of that knowledge and stuffed it somewhere behind the walls of aphasia.
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