My daughter was born 16 years ago, June 4th, a Sunday. Two weeks later, was Father’s Day. Having never been a father on Father’s Day, I took it easy. I’d finished the manuscript of my first book, but hadn’t heard from my editor (I forget nothing, Bill!); I had no prospects and we were near broke. I grilled a turkey. We’d gotten it free, a local grocery store giving out turkeys at Christmastime to loyal customers, and it had finally dawned on me earlier in the week that we ought to eat that thing. By the time it thawed, well, it was Father's Day. Donna was delirious from no sleep and both of us fretted over our first newborn—"Is it supposed to be black as tar?" "Honey, I think it’s falling off. What do we do with it?" ...
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