At 2 p.m., my parents forced my 8-year-old daughter to scrub their empty pool in the San Jose heat while the other grandkids sat inside eating pizza. Her skin was burning with fever, but my mother still pointed at us and said, “You and your kid are just freeloaders.” She thought that word would put me back in my place. What she forgot was that I’m an accountant — and accountants keep records.
My daughter was eight years old when I found her on her knees at the bottom of my parents’ drained swimming pool, scrubbing algae off concrete in a hundred-degree California afternoon. For one terrible second, my mind refused to understand what my eyes were seeing. The pool was empty, dry, and sunbaked, a pale concrete…
