My father, who loved my mother so deeply – and imperfectly – finishes this way. He provides, more than generously. The fruits of his labor reach into the present. Yet he nearly wrecks her with his decline. For five years…
In pajamas, I slipped downstairs for a breakfast of champions. I passed my father’s bedroom. He was awake, lying in bed with his hands behind his head. “Good morning, Jennifer!” he called out, as I paused in the door. “When…