It was a simple question that started a very long day.
“Who moved my belt?!”
My father bellowed the question to his three children. It was a Saturday morning in Pensacola, Fla., and he was getting ready to go to work. He didn’t normally work on Saturday, but there was a lot to do at his office.
My sisters and I dutifully streamed into the bedroom from which he had yelled his question. I was 12 and my sisters were 10 and 8. He was already angry, but it took us a minute to understand what was going on. He repeated the question.
“Who moved this belt?” he angrily shouted again. “It’s not where it’s supposed to be. It’s on this end of my closet instead. Who moved it?”