For most of my life, I pretended not to care about not knowing my dad. But I did. I cared a lot. I had one photo of him for years. He is 17 or 18, shirtless on a couch in what looked like a cluttered apartment. There was a bowl of cereal on the table, but also a bottle of vodka, leaving you to wonder if it was morning or afternoon. I learned later that days frequently ran together for him, so it could have been either. In the photo, he’s wearing a straw hat and has a sly little smile, staring