We're walking back to the car from Starbucks. I'm carrying a cloth bag with the alphabet on it, each letter accompanied by a cartoon sketch of a Shakespearian character. In it is a notebook, my laptop, notes on whom to network with and how to do it. Beside me, my father carries his own laptop, looking fairly content with the three hour session.

I'm nearly twenty-four years old, and my father has come to the realization that, about to graduate from a master's program, I am in need of a job. Ignoring the work I was already doing on that front, unable to comprehend my new and serious relationship with another man, he turns to the only outlet he understands: work. Job hunting. Job security. If there's something my dad knows, it's how to hop from one job to another. He hasn't stayed...

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