the suburbs, my father opening the door in his plaid shirt, his eyes tired but alive, saying to me:
“I knew you’d come back, son. The truth always finds a crack.”
But it wasn’t him who answered.
It was Grace, my stepmother. She was wearing spotless white pants, a silk blouse, and pearl earrings she never could have afforded before marrying my father. She looked me up and down—from my shaved head to my worn-out sneakers—as if I were a trash bag someone had left on the sidewalk.
“Where’s my
