I have a strange memory that until now I never felt able to share. I was around eleven or twelve. Something like that. A kid, but not a small one. I was in the kitchen of our small house in Bluefield, Virginia, and my parents were arguing.
It wasn’t a traumatic argument. It was rather silly and I recall feeling that way at the time. They weren’t arguing about money, infidelity, or addiction. They were arguing about Fiddler on the Roof.
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