My father is a family archivist. He has our ancestry traced back to goat farmers in Poland and Lithuania. I remember sitting on his knee in darkened library carrel as he scrolled microfiche for wedding announcements and other evidence of broken branches of the family tree. In my parents’ basement, in a room my sister and I call “Stalker’s Gallery,” he’s hung hundreds of photos. Half of them are of me, an infant, a toddler, my first day of school, an Easter here, a Christmas there, school photos, football portraits, my college graduation, where I wore just a white t-shirt under my cap and gown.