Across the way, the solemn-eyed little girl eyeing the lollipop was joined by her father. He held out his hand. She took it. Simple. Easy. “I was just calling to see how you’re doing.” My father was trying. I could see that—but I could also see the ease with which the man across the way hoisted his little daughter onto his shoulders. She was three, maybe four years old. Her hair was red, brighter than mine, but it was easy enough to picture myself at that age. I hadn’t even known I had a father.
