When I was a kid, I dreamed of being adopted. By the Happy Hollisters. Mr. and Mrs. Hollister already had five kids; what’s one more? My dad ran off before my legs grew long enough to follow. Mom loved him, which made her hate him for leaving her behind. She soothed her rage with whiskey, directing daily dramas from the kitchen of our split-level house, at war with a new man. I’d lie low in my bedroom, sprawled on my twin bed with its JCPenney sky blue polyester bedspread, devouring all the Happy Hollister books in the series. And when I finished, I’d read them again.