It was one of those lazy Sunday afternoons, and I was watching football. My wife, Ginny, decided to call our third son, who lived 2,000 miles away, to clarify a comment he'd made in his last letter.
I became aware of my wife's silence as she sat motionless on the floor, holding the phone. "Honey, what's wrong?" I asked.
Slowly she looked up. "AIDS — Dean has AIDS," she said.
The rest of this article is only available to subscribers.
© 2016 Augsburg Fortress, Publishers