The specific event that led to what I said happened at my mother's sixtieth birthday. My mother had planned a dinner at her house for sixteen people. Two hours in, Ollie bit my daughter — my own daughter, who is eleven years old, who had been trying to help him build a LEGO fort — hard enough on the shoulder that she was still bruised four days later. My daughter cried. I cleaned the bite. My brother said "Ollie, say you're sorry." Ollie said "no." My brother said "okay, well, try again later." And then my brother walked away. I stood in my mother's kitchen with my eleven-year-old daughter's shoulder in my hand and I watched my brother walk into the living room to refill his wine, and I felt something inside me — something that had been stretched for eight years — finally snap. I waited. I got my daughter settled. I told my wife, quietly, that I needed to talk to Grant. And two hours later, when the party was winding down, I asked him to step outside with me. He thought I wanted a cigarette. We hadn't smoked since college. I just needed him somewhere nobody else could hear.