I woke to an unfamiliar rasp—the front door sliding open and shut. Since my room was next to the vestibule, I sleepily wondered why I’d never really heard the door before. How easily something so common could go unnoticed! In other seasons, humming insects, nocturnal creatures crying, breezes swishing through trees, or leaves scratching the courtyard masked the sound of the door. But heavy new snow had wrapped the night in deep stillness. I heard my father giving instructions to someone outside and opened my eyes.

Easing out of bed, I saw that no lamp burned in my mother’s room down the hall, meaning it was unusually late. Moonrise marked the beginning of a woman’s private time, and long after I went to bed, she stayed up to sew, read, or write letters. I cracked my shutter open. Two silhouettes, outlined crisply against the snow like shadow puppets, headed toward the gate. I dimly heard a rattle of iron and wood when the bar was lifted and the latch released, then the sounds in reverse… My face chilled, I crept into my quilts, sleepless with curiosity… I’d learned well how to suppress my inquisitiveness, particularly on matters related to him. With my father, I was like that raspy sliding door—always around but noticed only when something was awry, such as when I dropped a cup, spoke before thinking or skipped on the flagstones.