I sat in the dingy booth in the rundown diner someplace in New Jersey, listening to the man who claimed to be my father speak. He seemed overly excited, reminiscing about things I’d long forgotten if they ever really happened; meanwhile, I’m just here for information.

He’d tried getting me to go home with him, which I staunchly refused. No doubt home for him is a grimy apartment somewhere in the city. That much I remember from my childhood, messy, broken-down apartments and the ...