In my Brooklyn neighborhood, the trees are exploding into crimsons and yellows. As I push my son's stroller through the streets, we pass stoops tangled in cottony orange spider webs, with blow-up ghosts bobbing in spooky greeting.
"See?" I point them out to my toddler. I stick my head into his stroller and cackle like a witch, and he gives me a bemused, four-toothed smile. I smile, too. At the same time, my stomach rolls over in a twist of sadness. It's autumn. Which means I'll be heading home again soon to see my parents. And I'm fairly certain my father isn't going to know who I am.
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