The long tooth of the Lord Our God bit my childhood. Hard. My father, a dentist with a degenerative neurological disease, took me to church every Sunday until my mother divorced him, and we were politely asked to leave the congregation. I've since divorced myself from such superstitions, but at the back of my mind lurks those familiar prayers. I catch myself repeating them during holidays, mouthing the words my father taught me to say. When he's gone, will those be the only words I remember? I'd like to think my family is happy, but there are relationships where one only knows the currency of guilt and shame.