My uncle got out of prison, and the whole family shut the door on him—except for my mom, who hugged him as if someone else were to blame.

keep hidden from the living. She would wash his clothes in silence, her hands trembling as she folded each piece—a reminder of what his life had been, a life that seemed to hang precariously over us like a pendulum.

“One day that miserable wretch is going to ruin us,” my dad would mutter, a dark cloud across his brow, staring into his empty glass of continue reading …