Inheritance My father’s briefcase was made from tough brown leather, with a strong handle and a burnished lock. Inside, three compartments kept manilla folders upright and prevented chaos. Each night he placed it on the linoleum in the kitchen, below the green laminex table. After dinner, its contents piled high around him, my father worked late, very late, the humming fridge his only company. This went on for years, despite predictions that we would all work less and play more. Only in his Clayton’s retirement did the briefcase become an irregular moon hidden by fluorescent clouds. They don’t make briefcases…