Somewhere in Jerez de la Frontera, the town in Andalusia famous for sherry and horses, there was once a villa with a central courtyard, wrought-iron balconies, and a jasmine-wreathed patio. Next to the house stood a grove of orange trees; beyond, a vineyard stretched down the hillside. My parents lived in this house from 1960 to 1961, when my father was posted at nearby Naval Station Rota. I was born after my parents moved on base, but in the years to come they would reminisce about their life in Spain. As I listened to their stories about the villa, it became a dream house for me, a place that held my parents’ memories and my own longing for what was and might have been. The villa—and, in a larger sense, Spain—is where my parents lived, even years after they’d left, a place I’ve visited and revisited, seeking to understand the dissolution of their marriage and the disintegration of our family.
