It was a cold July evening in the north. The kind of night when all my life’s decisions seemed, in retrospect, to have been good ones. They must have been good, to have ended up here, among friends and children. The adults were cooking or drinking, the teenagers were drifting around in a loose clump, a little phone-tranced but basically okay. Or maybe it had nothing to do with my decisions, maybe it was just dumb luck, the luck I was born into.
