It’s strange to realize my father is turning 80 next month. When I was born, he was 36—making me already eight years older than he was when he became a father of two. Though I’ve come to terms with the reality that I’m unlikely ever to experience being a father, there’s still, admittedly, a faint ember of longing. Eight years might not have seemed such a wide gap once, yet the older I get, the more significant each year feels. The irony is that this significance isn’t proof my lif...
