Now, as the front door opened, Mom’s steps were a slow shuffle. Dad helped her, holding her by the elbow. Mom, the still-fiery feminist, shook from the cruelty of Parkinson’s. Myron waited a moment in his seat, letting her get closer to the car. She finally shrugged away Dad’s hand, not wanting, he knew, for her son to see that she was older and frailer.

Myron slid out of the car as Mom reached him. She still threw her arms around him as though he were a just-released hostage. He hugged her back. Dad came up behind her. Myron kissed his cheek. That was how he greeted his father. With a kiss. Always.

“You look tired,” Mom said.

“I’m fine.”

“Doesn’t he look tired, Al?”

“Leave him alone, El. He looks fine. He looks healthy.”

“Healthy.” She turned to her husband. “What, you’re a doctor now?”

“I’m just saying.”

“He needs to eat more. Come inside. I’ll order more food.”

Ellen Bolitar didn’t cook. Not ever. There had been an attempt at a meat loaf involving Ragú sauce sometime during Myron’s high school years. They’d had to repaint the kitchen to get rid of the smell.

Myron offered her his hand. His mom gave him the stink eye.

“You too? I’m fine.”

She started back toward the house with a discernible limp. Myron looked over to his father, who just gave him a small shake of the head. They followed behind her.

“I’ll tell Nero’s to throw in another veal Parmesan. He needs to eat. And your nephew, he eats like he’s a building with a tapeworm.” She made a shooing gesture with her hand. “You two boys go in the den and do whatever manly bonding stuff you guys do.”

She grabbed the handrail and made her way into the kitchen. Dad nodded for Myron to follow him. Myron just stood there for one moment and let the feeling rush over him.

He loved his parents.

Yes, we all do, but rarely is it so uncomplicated. There was no confusion, no remorse, no resentment, no hidden rage, no blame. He loved them. He loved with no buts or stipulations. They could do no wrong in his eyes. There were some who claimed that he just looked at them through rose-tinted glasses, that Myron was prone to both fits of nostalgia and familial historical revisionism.

Those people were wrong.

Myron and Dad sat in the same spots in the den or TV room, whatever you want to call it, that they had sat in for more years than Myron cared to remember. When Myron was young, experts warned about the dangers of too much television watching, which might or might not be true, but this particular father and son had bonded in this room sharing mutually loved programs. Prime time was eight to eleven P.M., and back then, before everyone watched on demand or via streaming, a father and son would sit and laugh at a stupid sitcom or discuss the clichés in a detective series. You’d watch and you’d be together, in the same room, and that meant, whatever else you want to say about it, some concept of bonding. Now parents went to their rooms and kids went to theirs. They all stared at smaller screens—laptops, smartphones, tablets—and watched exactly what they wanted to watch. The experience now was entirely solitary, and Myron couldn’t help but think that was a terrible thing.