I suppose this isn't really a confession, more an observation from a long time ago, but I find myself thinking about it again lately, with this whole... situation. It's just, after my divorce — and oh, the *enantiodromia* of that whole thing, losing half your world at fifty — it made me more sensitive, I think, to the little injustices, the quiet ones. So with my own parents, bless their hearts, when they came over and were always struggling with the forms, the utility bills, the doctors explaining things with that rapid-fire English… it wasn’t a big deal but I was always the one, always the interpreter, the advocate, wading through the bureaucracy for them while my brother, my sister, they were just… elsewhere, occupied, I suppose. It just gets stuck in my head, sometimes, that asymmetry of it all.