A letter to my children, who deserved more of me than I gave when it would have meant the most — not more money, not more sacrifice, just more of me, in the room, paying attention, the way I am paying attention now — sitting with it, finally still, finally honest — to everything I was given and didn’t know how to hold
Danny is eight years old, sitting at the piano in his school auditorium. His hands are on the keys but ...
