There were worse ways to be greeted in your own home than by catching your mother spread-eagle, plastered against the glass backyard door, getting mauled by her fiancé. But I couldn’t think of any of them as I stood at the entrance tightening my fist around the door handle, fighting—and losing—a war against my gag reflex. “Yes, Marty! Yes. Right there, dio mio—don’t stop.” Her muffled cries, blurred by his palm as he tried to make sure they wouldn’t wake the toddler upstairs, trickled into my brain, burning themselves into my core memory. My knee-jerk reaction was to scream, “MY EYES, MY
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