All children are charming as an adjective, but you’re charming as a verb. Ma had once said that with a sigh while we waited on the platform. I had locked us in conversation with a stranger who was carrying a vase of fresh flowers, and we missed our stop on the express. I aced the following day’s surprise grammar quiz.

Dad was always less patient about my subway antics. On weekends, I would ride the green line with him while he picked up supplies and tools from cheap East Harlem appliance stores. When the train was running late, I would sometimes get antsy and amuse myself by stepping too close to the yellow line, and he would yank my arm back the moment my toe even crossed over.

No! That’s dangerous, Henri!

Once, I even saw a dog. Future lectures, seated at the kitchen table, would convince me that no leash-less beagle was, in fact, darting down the subway platform at the time, but I will swear until the day I die that there was absolutely a dog on the platform that day. He looked happy and friendly, and I instantly took off after him, darting between bystanders and jumping over a bench to go after it. I would catch glimpses of its tail wagging between legs. The fact that I was never, not ever, supposed to let go of Dad’s or Ma’s hand became an afterthought: I just wanted to catch that dog.

However, by the time I made it to the other end of the platform, it was gone, and everyone was looking at me from a distance. I realized why when I finally stopped panting and could hear the panicked and angry roar of Dad catching up to me. I didn’t watch a minute of television for a full month after that. Which for a first grader might as well be a year. I thought Dad hated me. The older I got, the clearer it became that of course he didn’t. Dad wasn’t raging; he was terrified, maybe a little embarrassed, but there was no rage.

Today?

Today, Dad rages.

He ends up refreshing the portal more than I did. It’s as if the words I’m saying—half explanations and apologies—aren’t computing. Background noise to the important task happening on the family computer. Ma doesn’t say anything; she slumps down in a chair, having heard every word Dad hasn’t and now seems to be processing. She’s tired too, fresh home from the station. Normally she would have been asleep an hour ago. I’m so sorry, Ma. My stomach churns all over again.

“They—they can’t just accuse you of something like that,” he says after firmly shutting off the computer, galvanized to now go jangle a second locked door.

“Dad—”

“No, Henri. No. This isn’t fair. We’ll get a lawyer!”