I see the door of my parents room through the frame of my own door. Between our thresholds a staircase leads down to the life of the house, a straight shot to the foyer where everyone passes. But looking at my parents door, the distance seems forever. And as I think of the things that she did here to me, the distance grows. How did they not know? It’s a question I know the answer to: They didn’t because they weren’t there. But I ask it all the same as if the closeness makes it their fault, their responsibility. It’s not. Still, looking at the door, through the eyes of the one it happened to, I feel unbearably sad.