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You usually overslept your time slot, dashing in at the last minute in your faded Dostoevsky T-shirt and cut-offs, your huarache sandals slapping the newsroom floor as you raced to throw your empty briefcase on the desk and hog our shared computer just before my shift began.

You pressed your lips together and gossiped about other people’s “bad” children. Ours, you said with a toss of tightly permed hair, wouldn’t pay attention. You’re the only teacher I ever told, “Retire, before your burned-out bitter battle-ax of a self poisons my daughter’s love of school.”

You’re a gruff, silent man, overshadowed by your loud, affectionate wife. Every baby in the family fell asleep when cuddled on the warmth of your enormous rumbling belly. You napped too, and your rafter-shaking snores were the white noise that kept anything else from waking the babes.