Paul had reached, we hoped, the final leg of his dissertation on La-Z-Boy  recliners.  “Babe, help your mother,” Gracie said. She was a good one. Megan, Paul’s mother, looked to be in no particular need of help, but Gracie tried to push Paul always in the right direction. He needed it. Megan couldn’t do it anymore. She’d passed the torch. “Hold on,” Paul said, “I’m mansplaining simultaneous recline and rock.” He said things like that, but I guess we still loved him.  By