Once, while seated on the toilet at Dad’s, I ripped the towel rod from the bathroom wall. I wasn’t angry, only constipated. Thing was, my bowels, confused and bottlenecked ever since Mom and Dad had called it quits, came unstuck at the very same moment the mounting brackets tore holes in the drywall. I wiped myself, flushed. When I showed him the damage, the ripped wallpaper, the exposed insulation, the grounded rod, the white plaster powdering the pink porcelain tile, Dad asked, “Was it the Stouffer’s?” I wasn’t sure who to blame. “Don’t worry, I’ll fix it later,” he said and fell back asleep in his Lazy Boy. But he never fixed anything. When he put the house up for sale years later, the rod and holes and debris remained just as they had been, the repairs neglected, the bathroom showing like modern art. By then I had gotten my life together, kept a job long enough to qualify for a loan. I bought the place, something to flip, make a buck or two. Don’t mind the walls pocked with fist-shaped holes, the smashed-up kitchen tile, the shards of window glass. Demo before reno. I’ll fix it later.