My dad and I are sitting in a booth at El Torito. I am nursing a margarita, Dad's got a bottle of beer, and the Mexican food will arrive soon. This has become a ritual for us, eating out three times a week, since we sold Dad's house in Texas and moved him to California a year ago at age 83. "Kick 'em!" he says, and we clink our glasses and connect--more than we ever connected before. Since Mom died more than two years ago, we hug and kiss--things we never did when I was growing up and he was a...
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