“You’re a Lewis boy,” says Keith. “Theresa,” he calls over his shoulder, “didn’t we go to high school with a Lewis?” Mom steps out from the kitchen in a food-coloring-stained apron. “You know, I think your father was a few years ahead of us,” she says. “Class of eighty-nine, ma’am.” “Hey,” I say, interrupting their trip down memory lane.
How. How old are these parents? Are they all gen X?
Does that change how I read these interactions as a millennial who is a kid of boomers and parent of zoomers?
