After a time, we came to understand our parents in a different way. We no longer thought they were crazy.

We were not immune to depression.

We agreed that guilt was not necessary.

At home, I went into my bedroom. I shut the door, but I could hear my mother’s and father’s voices.

"I need cash," my father said. "When I go out, I’m not flush. I don’t want people to say to me, `If you’re so smart, why ain’t you rich?’"

"Maybe you should get a job," my mother said.

"I can’t join the rat race," he said. "That’s a waste of life."

"You could borrow money from your parents."

"I could ask, but they’ll tell me to get a job. That’s what they’ve been saying for years. By they’ve also been saying, `You’re not qualified to do anything.’ Actually, I’m overqualified to do most things."

"Maybe we don’t need money," my mother said.

My father’s voice became louder. "How can I find work if I’m underqualified for everything and overqualified for anything?"

"I can’t answer that," my mother said.

I heard a door hit its molding as my father left the house. I looked out a window and saw his car approach the one intersection in town. His turn signal indicated he was heading for the hotel bar. I didn’t know why he couldn’t just walk there. The bar was about a hundred yards away.

When a home health nurse came to check on our mother, he shut himself in his room. He didn’t want the nurse to see him. He believed that if she did, she would know he was a loser.

His despair was so dark that our mother thought he might kill himself.

He had threatened to end his life after his divorce. Back then, our mother had said to him, "Please don’t kill yourself while you’re so far away. I’ll have to buy a plane ticket to clean up the mess. Why don’t you wait until you’re here before you do it? I’ll be able to clean up more easily."