It felt like there should be someone we could talk to, explain things, and they could fix it. “Oh, I’m sorry, we made a mistake,” they would say, and then they would rearrange the timeline so that my dad did not have tumors the size of lemons in his brain and body, so that there was no cancer and no headaches, so that it was just a normal evening with him tuning his guitar for a show, tying on his dress shoes, calling “Love you” over his shoulder as he went out the door.
