I do not think it possible for anyone to write a memoir of his or her parents that is not a little sad. Most of us end up following the same grim trajectory in life — first a childhood of trust (sometimes hero-worship) that leads inevitably to an adolescence of disillusionment and rage. In the busy years that follow we try to ignore our parents altogether, to concentrate on feathering our own nests without them. And when ‘in fair round belly’ we come to our seasoned middle age, thinking we now possess a balanced enough mind to judge them impartially, we are already too late; for, by then, they have started their downward skid. Down they go — whee! — sliding all the way, until, bewildered, decrepit and detached, they finally hit the bottom and die. Our parents’ deaths resolve nothing.

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