Dad would overhaul every room in the house, looking for something no one else cared about. This was a constant feature at our house that almost always ended up with everyone joining in the search. It was always the damn keys. “Where are my keys?” he would ask in a sharp voice as he pulled out the cushions on the sofas. My brother and I didn’t have to hear that question twice to know that we were now official members of a domestic search party. My mom would heckle us with a rant about how careless we were, only to throw the keys at us having found it without much effort.

One time she found them in the trousers he had on.

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