But my father had three hungry people to care for, and so he switched his major from fine art to industrial design. Years later, he told me that a part of him had died on the day he went to the registrar’s office to make the change. Although he would have been horrified to admit it, my father never really forgave any of us—my mother, brother or me—for depriving him of his dream. From early childhood it was clear to me that Dad saw himself as our victim.
