At Sunday dinner, Dad told 23 relatives: “She’s wo…

hot.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re still renting that tiny apartment in Queens,” my father said, his tone matter-of-fact, as if he were discussing the weather. “You drive a ten-year-old Honda. You work at, what is it you do again? Some hospital job.”

“I’m a doctor,” I said quietly.

“Right, right.” He waved his hand dismissively. “But not a successful one. Not like continue reading …