The first time my dad caught me smoking pot, I was mortified. A college sophomore at the time, I had just sparked a pipe out back of my parents' house, only to hear the rear door unlatch as Pop made his way to the backyard to let the dog outside. Smoke burning my lungs, I looked around for somewhere to furtively stash my cheap glass. Too late—I sensed my father’s presence through the darkness and waited for a rough hand to snatch the back of my neck or a masculine voice angrily grumble my name. Neither happened. Instead, I heard him say one thing before the screen door swung back into place, leaving me to finish up in solitude: “How come you never share, man?”