Nearly a year after he’d been laid off because of Covid, my dad – a jubilant, always-smiling, 58-year-old Michigander best known for befriending everyone he meets – told me he wanted to go back to work.
Specifically, he wanted to work at Costco.
“OK,” I said, thinking: that is weirdly particular. “You’ll need a resumé. And, God, a different email. Not that Yahoo one you’ve had since before I was born.”
“I want to work on my feet,” he told me. “I want to work somewhere that appreciates me until I can retire. Can you help me apply?”
We’d been in Florida for a week, caring for my grandparents, and I’d started waking
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