But my father could have saved his tears. Recently, I called him to get a recipe. He dictated it slowly over the phone, struggling to enunciate the words. Tonight, I will grate potatoes; I will mix them with flour and eggs, and also some onion, to make a dough that is not too loose or too dense; I will scoop the dough up with a teaspoon to form little dumplings and, as I have a few times already in the past weeks, drop the dumplings in boiling water and fish them out when they've popped to the top. Then I'll eat them topped with sour cream, carmelized onions, and crumbled bacon, and I'll enjoy them immensely, for my father has finally succeeded in teaching me how to make haluŝky. And the story that my father so longed to have me write? Well, it might not read the way he had imagined it. But this is my story—or it's our story, for better or worse, his and mine—and with his help, I've finally written it.