One morning, I woke up sick to my stomach and walked downstairs, where my father was alone, drinking coffee. I told him I didn’t feel well and that Mom usually made me toast. He nodded and grabbed two pieces of bread. He turned on the electric stovetop and held the slices on the red-hot coils. “Faster than a toaster,” he said. The slices blackened. He doused them in sugar. I ate them. It made me feel better. I went to work.
