
When I was seventeen, my father, Mark Ellison, called me into the living room with the stiff, business-like tone he used whenever he wanted to seem in control. His new wife, Carla, sat beside him on the sofa, her arms crossed. My stepsister, Lily, hovered awkwardly near the hallway, pretending to be interested in her phone.
“Evan,” my dad began, “we need to talk about your behavior.”