My expectations weren’t high. They never are, these days. But still, I had that tiny flicker of hope, the same pathetic flame that keeps moths frying themselves on lightbulbs. I shaved, splashed on some aftershave that expired sometime during the Obama administration, and combed my hair in a way I imagined said: distinguished gentleman rather…

Chapter One: The Note on the Fridge Every memoir starts with a tragedy. Some start with war, some with famine, some with fathers who were too drunk to remember their children’s birthdays. Mine started with a Post-it note stuck on the fridge. “I’m leaving.” That’s all it said. Two words. My wife, partner of twenty…