On a gray Thursday afternoon, the rain fell over the city without stopping, a relentless curtain of water that seemed intent on drowning the world. I was in my small kitchen, stirring a pot of stew that was boiling hard, the warm scent of corn and pork filling the air. I smiled, thinking about the comforting dinner that awaited us. My daughter, Valerie, had promised to stop by if her husband, Richard, didn’t have to work late. I always longed for those moments, when the two of us could just sit and talk like we used to, back when she was a little girl who would cling to my side, begging for one more story.
