“My parents are…” I lick my dry lips, trying to step on the right word. I think about how people see the Hales. Fragile, breakable, humans—a row of dominos that topple with one blow. But that row of dominos always uprights again. And again. Again. Strong. My parents are strong, I remember, but it’s a kind of strength that appears after raw vulnerability. Like a scar after a wound.
