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sound?”
    “I’d like that.”
    We completed the snowman’s body and head in short time. We used two black stones for its eyes, a carrot for its nose, a handful of pebbles for its mouth, and a couple twigs for its arms. We stepped back to admire our creation.
    “Look at that happy face,” said Dad. “He’s the nicest snowman I’ve ever seen.”
    Why did that moment stand out for me many years later? Nothing noteworthy happened. Perhaps it was the gentle way my father transformed my anxiety about the snowman into something so positive. He had a talent for lifting one’s spirits. That must have benefited clients who were usually in dire circumstances. It benefited me as well.
    My childhood was smooth and mostly pain-free. It was a tough period for my mother, though. About three years after my birth, she became pregnant with my brother Hagen. The nine months she carried him were a hell that nearly killed her. I recalled almost nothing about those days. My father’s composure guided us through the storm of that pregnancy. For a few years after Hagen’s birth, my mother suffered ailments that sometimes landed her in the hospital. She agreed with her doctors not to have any more children: “Two are as many as I can handle anyway.” Her health gradually improved and our family tried to return to normalcy.
    But Hagen’s pregnancy was a harbinger. He proved even more of a hassle out of the womb. He cried constantly and endured infant insomnia. The doctors could not figure out what was wrong with him. At two he threw violent temper tantrums, often in stores and other public places. He relished the attention. The doctors still could not figure out the problem. By four Hagen was seeing child psychologists. They had no answers. My parents tried to put him in school when he was six. Within a week the people who ran the school ordered him back home indefinitely. They labeled him “unmanageable.” The label stuck.
    I ignored my brother. I was in school myself and played sports year-round. Additionally, my parents – especially my father – strived to keep Hagen’s misbehavior from affecting me. I nevertheless glimpsed the toll he took on them.
    In our house were stairs leading from the top floor, where the bedrooms were, into a lower-level kitchen. People on the bottom floor could not see a spy hiding at the top of those steps. That enabled me to hone a childhood vice: eavesdropping.
    At about ten I secretly listened to my mother and father discussing my brother:
    My mother said, “The child is a nightmare. I can’t deal with him any longer. Why is this happening to us?”
    “Jillian, I don’t know,” my father said, uncharacteristically flustered. “There’s no reason, I guess. Some parents just end up with a troubled kid.”
    “Well it’s no fair. We don’t deserve this.”
    “Of course not. This isn’t about fairness. We have to learn how to cope.”
    My mother choked back tears. “But I can’t cope, not with this. Maybe we should get him some medication.”
    “You know I prefer not to do that. Maybe we can bring somebody in, like a manners coach or something. There must be someone who can help him. We’ll get through this. We just have to be patient. Look at the bright side. At least Sebastian is doing okay.”
    “That only makes it more puzzling. How did we end up with one kid who’s fine and another who’s a train wreck?”
    “I don’t know. Jillian, I don’t know.”
    They were still talking about Hagen a half hour later. I shuffled off to bed. My father must have said “I don’t know” twenty times. I was just glad to be the good kid.
    Another event further distanced me from my brother. My father bought me a video camera for my eleventh birthday, a gift that changed my life. I began filming everything, even taking my camera to school (igniting a mini-uproar wherein the principal prohibited the device from campus). My favorite subject to record was the animal kingdom.
    My father purchased