On our last Thanksgiving together my Grandfather Ezra, in his plain dark woolen coat, raised his hand and sanctimoniously asked my father to say grace. After an uncomfortably long silence I opened my eyes to see my parents tightly gripping each other’s hands as tears streamed down Dad’s face.

By Christmas Dad had retreated to the darkened guest room. I didn’t see him for eighteen months. When he finally emerged, he was bearded and gaunt, but seemed at peace. Or defeated. He was 48 years old, and looked 70. My mother had taken a job in a doctor’s office by then. After I went off to college they moved into a small apartment.