We moved into the new place in January. My parents separated in March. My father lives in a one-bedroom in Muncie now and calls on Sundays, and he has apologized properly, more than once, for staying quiet at that table for thirty-one years.

I have not spoken to my mother since the step. She sends a card at Christmas. I do not open them anymore, and I stopped feeling guilty about that somewhere in the second year.

Juniper is nine. She does not remember the dinner, which I check on occasionally and carefully. She remembers the new house, the yellow room, the neighbor’s dog.

My grandmother saw something happening to me a decade before I could name it, and she did the only thing she could from where she stood: she made sure that one thing in my life could not be taken, argued over, or explained away. That is what love does when it cannot fix the room it is sitting in. It quietly builds you a door. I spent years believing I had to prove I was not a burden. I finally stopped auditioning, and the silence that followed turned out to be the sound of my own life.