I worried that my parents would kill each other.

It went like this growing up: Mom and Dad would go through the permutations of working class life — work long hours, fend for the family at home, attend to chores, routines, and carve out some time for relaxation. They made minimal effort when it came to my brother’s and my interests. But this wasn’t their fault. They were too tired and bewildered to try and understand us. They were dutiful in making sure we were cared for. That we had a…