I shouldn’t have gotten joy when I exited the elevator to the sound of your screaming, down the hall, so clear and forceful and unsettling, only to have you silence your calling when I turned the key, dropped it on the bookshelf, and stepped into our home to feel welcomed by your small but distilled way of crying for me, of wishing for me, of waiting and looking helpless even though you were in the loving, faithful presence of your mother, waiting for your father to return home from work.