David dropped his head, and, with the faintest hint of a smile, whispered, “I hate you.” This phrase has become the swan song for each of his arguments in their moment of death.

At first, David was dejected, and I wasn’t much help. “If we were going to go for fun, I probably would have opted to stay on the fun side of the island,” I said.

I felt my face flush with heat when across the table I heard these names pronounced correctly, with perfect French accents: “Al-bare Kam-oo” and “Mare-so.”

A path of rose petals led us to the waiting area. Fresh croissants and an assortment of pastries and colorful cookies, along with porcelain teapots, cucumbers, and red roses were spread out on tiny wooden …

My sister Jane was along to spend time with me and properly watch after her progeny, lest I drop one of them into the shark-petting pool or something.

“See how this part is orange? That’s supposed to be red. I’m looking to find a guy who paints cars, with airbrushes, because I want to get these airbrushed back to the red that they were when I bought them.”

When I asked Dad what he thought happens to women after 40, he laughed and said, “They turn,” a term that, moments before, he’d joked was akin to milk spoiling.

When Mom “joked” about working for me, I called her bluff. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it, because I could use some help,” I said. Instead of the “gotcha” laugh I expected, Mom’s face lit up.

David is the guy who, upon hearing a fart joke at a party, rolls his eyes and repeats the adage that, given enough time, all conversations seem to devolve into discussions of bodily functions.

I have kept every message I’ve ever received, the most poignant and rewarding being the responses to my stories about my struggles with anxiety and depression.