For my sister and me, running across childhood objects stockpiled in boxes or stuck into books around our parents’ home is a source of sweetness, a reminder of their affection: Shabby stuffed animals, globby daubs of poster paint with blobby creatures of indiscernible species frolicking over flat green fields, certificates of academic or athletic achievement (“Most Improved in the Far, Far Outfield Where We Put Her So She Couldn’t Screw Up Too Much” is a softball trophy I could have won multiple times). My sister and I count our folks’ loving support of our most trivial accomplishments as one of our lives’ great fortunes.