“Your Kids Can Eat at Home,” My Dad Said—So When the Waiter Returned, I Stood Up – The Archivist

He extended a hand lazily toward me, his wrist limp, not bothering to lift his elbow off the armrest.

I took his hand briefly. It was clammy and soft—what we call a “dead fish” handshake in professional circles. I gave it a firm, short squeeze and let go immediately, resisting the urge to wipe my hand on my jeans.

“Aubrey Miller,” I said, my voice continue reading …