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My 45-year-old eyes beheld my 19-year-old dad yesterday—a young man in motion, panting and focused mid-wrestling match, at the pinnacle of his athletic career. Dad’s been dead for eight years, and yet, there he was on my iPhone, bobbing and flexing, thick brown hair and brawny shoulders, familiar angles and mannerisms.

My name is Emily and I’m an addict. While I’ve never uttered that confession in the circular sanctity of a meeting, I do have a problem. A December problem. With gingerbread.