He sat with his wife’s photo, waiting for a son who had already boarded without him

pristine white shutters that looked like they were scrubbed daily. The lawn was always freshly cut, smelling of manicured success and chemical fertilizer. My father, Dr. Leonard Foster, was a widely respected cardiologist who preferred his dress shirts crisp and his children quieter than the heart monitors in his hospital wing.

My mother, Patricia, continue reading …