In My Family’s Midst

In my family’s midst, the wag isolates me. He jokes, says that he fears his daughter has inherited my mother's ugly genes, that my seven-year-old son looks like President Putin, and calls teasingly, “Hey, Vladimir,” in the direction of the boy playing on the floor with his car track. My son, not conversant with heads of state, lines up cars on the starting gate, unaware that he is being addressed, mocked; my objecting vociferously would compromise that, and so I say nothing.