The dog was asleep in the corner, and I was seated at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of weak tea. My 21-year-old son sat cross-legged on the floor, messing with his guitar, telling me a funny story about a dating disaster involving one of his good friends. “Rocco’s a fool,” I said with affection when Sam’s tale was done. “He is,” Sam agreed. “I love him.” We laughed. Then Sam stopped strumming and looked at me. “You don’t really have any friends, do you, Dad?” Sam didn’t mean it in a hurtful