While we were in the air the boss sent me four emails. As did my father. Except his were Zillow listings, forwarded on. The plane Wi-Fi was too weak to allow the pictures to load; they stayed boxy outlines. A two-bedroom in Anacostia, a studio in Lanier Heights. A one-bedroom in Northeast D.C. My father, who with great pain and over years had finally accepted that he had a gay daughter, had since chosen to stay focused on her material advancement in the world. From two oceans away he called routinely to ask how my performance review went, whether I would negotiate a robust raise. My mother let
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