My mom died when I was eight. We were close when she was alive, or so people tell me, but I barely remember her. I was raised by my dad, a gruff factory worker, the kind of guy who changed his own oil and thought just about anything could be fixed by hard work and exercise.

Ignoring Dad must’ve done something to his masculine ego, because only a couple weeks after Ms. Sandee stopped pushing herself on Dad, he started paying a lot more attention to her.

My father was a big believer in cottage industry, so while other kids spent their summers gorging on Twinkies in front of flashing TV screens as they played video games, or watching the girls in their bikinis at the beach, I pushed a cheap lawnmower up overgrown hills.

4. Call me Betsy

I was learning more than I’d ever learned in school—she taught me how to cook, not just how to use a stove and follow recipes, but how to use spices and jazz things up. She never ate…

Betsy also had a decent collection of books, and she would send me home with one every couple days and quiz me about them like I was in English class.

I had a recurring dream for years. I’m wearing a tuxedo, and I step onto an elevator and fall perfectly in love with a beautiful woman I’ve never met before.

After Betsy’s death, Ms. Sandee wanted me to stop working, but Dad said it would make me all sullen and strange, so I kept mowing yards for the last few weeks of summer, only Dad or Ms. Sandee would drop me off and pick me up.

School

I couldn’t decide what movie to take Claire to so I asked Dad and Ms. Sandee.

“Take her to a scary one,” Dad said. “Like Hitchcock. She’ll get all agitated and hug up on you to protect her. And if it’s…

What is This, Really?

New Year’s came and went. Claire invited me to a party with some friends of hers. I was nervous. It seemed like a big deal. I kind of assumed there’d be drinking or the like. So I…