One summer morning I was playing beneath our backyard apricot tree when my father burst out of the house and stood over me. I sat quietly with my head down, waiting to hear what I’d done wrong this time. When he asked if I wanted to go downtown with him to see a car show, I looked up to see if he was kidding. I was nine and didn’t care at all about cars — it was my brother who went nuts over anything mechanical — but I wasn’t about to say no; my father had noticed me, and I wasn’t in trouble.