The first time it really hits me, I'm staring at the peeling paint on the doorknob.I long ago memorized the feeling of coming home – the click of my key in the door, the scent of Mom's stir fry on the stove, the twinkle of piano keys as she riffs Gershwin tunes from memory. But as I step into the dim light of my parents' house, I realize that of all these things, only the first remains. There is no light here anymore, no warmth or music. I wipe my feet on the mat, and am met with silence.And then I see Dad sitting alone by the window, and in him I find the same.From the doorway, his face looks