By Zoë Miller ’23
“Mom mom look!!!” cried my six-year-old. She barreled into the kitchen with her younger brother in tow. Between the two of them they carried a lopsided dummy, pieced together with duct tape and stuffed with pillows. “It’s Dad!” she said, pointing to the dummy’s clothes. They’d squeezed Raggedy Andy into the neckline of the t-shirt to serve as a head. “Now he’s home again!” my daughter said proudly, hugging the figure around its middle. That night I hurled the dummy down the stairs. It lay crumpled on the landing, Raggedy Andy looked up to me, neck bent.