In The Morning, My Son Texted: “Plans Changed — Don’t Come Up To The Ski Lodge, My Wife Wants An Intimate Christmas With Her Parents.” The Next Day I Canceled The Cards, Sold The Property To An Investor, And Flew To The Caribbean. WHEN THEY ARRIVED AT THE MOUNTAIN IN THE BLIZZARD, THE KEY My Son Texted: “Don’t Come To The Cabin—My Wife Wants Just Family.” When They Arrived I was standing in my Reno kitchen on December 17th, folding sweaters into two suitcases like muscle memory. Scarves. Boots.

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