When I got home from school I’d press my ear to his door and try to figure out what was happening from the sounds I heard. On the other side I would hear “Om,” and deep inhaling and exhaling. When I slipped in to greet him, the mats and blankets he used were still spread out on the floor. My mom said my father needed to meditate, and though I didn’t really know what yoga was, I understood what she meant, since I knew his mood swings as well as she did. Hours before he left for work, he turned into another person. He went mute just before starting his shaving routine, and while he waited for the water to boil he paced around the house with his hands on his hips, taking furious steps. He took off his pajamas and tied a towel around his waist. He poured the water into the sink and submerged some washcloths that he pressed against his face. Then he let out some short wheezing sounds, like he was threatening to bellow. My father had sensitive skin, and it was a sacrifice for him to shave every day. To round off the ritual, he went out on the stairs and applied cologne while he cursed and grunted. After that you couldn’t talk to him; just like his skin after shaving, everything irritated him. But at the same time you had to be attentive to him, observe his anger without expressing an opinion. If we were unconcerned by his hardship, that bothered him too.

If there was one thing I knew about my father, it was that he hated his job. The two Sundays and the Tuesday he had off every month were even worse for him. He was exhausted by the mere knowledge that he would have to go back to work the next day, and he couldn’t rest. He spent the whole day aggrieved by the injustice of another workday, suffering the brevity of time and its implacable advance.

That’s why I was so scared as I walked beside Caro’s mom when she took me home that first day. It was my father’s day off, and he had no qualms about offending people. I’d seen him complain and upset my teachers, phone operators, waiters, and salespeople, and then brag about it after he’d gotten a discount or a free dessert. I imagined the situation: my father would ask who had taken care of me all afternoon, and then make sarcastic remarks about all the supervision we’d surely gotten from a couple of old people. I saw him throwing it in Caro’s mom’s face that she was separated or a single mom, or that she didn’t have her own house. With his hands on his hips, an ironic half smile on his face, chin raised. I also imagined my mother behind him, half hidden and silent. Forcing a scowl of anger to support her husband while she apologized with her eyes, those martyred eyes she used every time she said, “You know how your father is,” or “What can I do?”