“Your father kicked it,” my mother said, and pointed to the hole next to the front door. Before she covered it up with a framed snapshot of my father, I peered inside at the wood planks and fluffy insulation.
Days later I was drawn to my parents’ bedroom by what sounded like the mewing of a kitten. My father lay on the bed. When I crawled up and put my face next to his, his cheeks were wet and I saw that he had been crying. He looked at me without saying anything. I knew then that the hole by the front door and his crying went together.
