On most family occasions, my Uncle Sandy would try to teach me a little French, as he was a French teacher. That day, he sat on the couch, looking down at his hands gripped together. I parked myself in my grandfather’s beloved television chair. So often I had sat in it with my grandfather, snuggling against him, as we watched “Superman,” “Rifleman,” and “Gunsmoke” together. That Sunday, though, I inhabited it all alone.