Growing up, my dad was my world. On weekdays after school and Saturday, I would return home to find my dad working in the backyard, lugging lumber or metal pipes around for his latest contraption, tinkering with some airconditioning parts for his job, or being eaten alive by a car, and go out to help him. Sweat would drip down his forehead and neck and soak his shirt. He didn’t complain. While we worked, our bodies would move in...