Blair and I spent the afternoon packing the library and front room. We were pulling photo albums and stray pictures out of a cabinet, deciding what stays and what goes.
"Is this your mom?" Blair asked, handing me a photo of a 10-year-old blonde girl with a bow in her hair that had been laquered within an inch of its life to a piece of wood (woodshop project, 7th grade).
"Yes," I said.
"And what about this little fella here?" said Blair, handing me a picture of a chubby baby in a blue sweater sitting on a couch. "Is this your dad?"
"That's me, you igit," I said.
Things took an ugly turn from there.