It’s not like my parents were deeply in love. They always seemed too smart for those kinds of powerful emotions. My childhood was a blur of sameness. Sunday brunches with my father reading medical journals while my mother networked on the phone. They slept in separate bedrooms by the time I was twelve.
Sure, they attended regularly scheduled appearances at hospital functions, and while they were there, they smiled and touched each other on the waist enough to convince people it was genuine affection. On some level, I do believe they liked each other. They worked well together—co-authors on research papers, professional partners in every sense.
But were they passionate? Never. Not once did I witness a lingering touch, a heated glance, a moment of spontaneous desire between them.
Yet here
