A few years ago, while biking on the West Orange Trail, I came upon a young boy — perhaps 6 or 7 years old — who was tugging at his father’s shirt and loudly saying, “Why won’t you listen to me?” as his father stared and swiped away on his cell phone. I almost stopped my bike and said something to the dad, but, as a person who has never owned a cell phone, and hates them with a passion, I knew my my words might not be polite.
On April 26 this year, my wife and I joined one of the most awful groups a parent can ever unwillingly join — the one whose children dies before they do.