For a while he tried. He worked, showed up for science fairs, did his best. Then he met Tracy. She arrived with warm brownies and warmer compliments, the kind of smile that makes people relax. A year later she married my dad and moved in with her son, Connor—my age, all swagger and designer sneakers. The house shifted around them. My mom’s things “disappeared,” replaced by what Tracy called “a fresh start.”

When my dad died of a heart attack three years later, the floor gave way again. Tracy