One of my dad’s favorite stories about me goes back to when I was just 2 years old. When my dad was finishing up his residency in New Jersey, he would come home from the hospital to our little basement apartment, completely exhausted. First thing he always did was take off his work shoes, slip on his black leather slippers and sprawl on the couch for a minute. I must’ve been a pretty attentive 2-year-old—with impressive upper-body strength, may I add—because soon after learning how to walk, I picked up on his little routine. When I heard him coming through the…
