The awning looked sinister at this hour, casting a long sharp shadow in the streetlights. I walked toward it slowly, steeling myself, imagining what was to come. I pictured the taut-lipped look on my parents’ faces. The accusations and anger—I couldn’t do them the courtesy of replying? Was I ten years old? Selfish. Or maybe the worst would come: the punishment for Langham, whatever it might be. How dare you. I could deny it, but did I even want to? You are a disgrace. I could say I hadn’t done it, that they were imagining everything—but he would be there, what would he say?—or I could take the opposite tack, own what I’d done, defend my right to sleep with whomever I wanted—or I could blame Langham; wasn’t it his fault after all? how much power did I have?—but before I could think it through, before I could thoroughly prepare, the doorman had opened the door, said hello, hello, it was good to see me again, and ushered me inside.

I took the elevator up and swayed along the hallway, trailing my fingers along the wall for balance. The hallway carpet had a garish color scheme, one that had always repulsed me; tonight it felt particularly offensive, even vulgar. I wondered who would open the door, my father or my mother. Would they hug me? Would they touch me at all? Even if they didn’t know about Langham, I wasn’t sure. My mother would hug me and kiss me on both cheeks, but with my father, it was always an open question. Sometimes he didn’t hug me at all; other times he pitched his shoulders toward mine to touch and patted my back rapidly with his palm, keeping the rest of his body at a distance. I always reciprocated, keeping my body far from his as well, creating a tent, patting his back as he pat mine. The gesture gave me an anxious, fluttery feeling, my father’s distress seeping into me, and I began to feel it already as I neared the doorway.

Before I could knock, the door swung open, and there was my father, stance wide, right in the center of the doorframe. He looked like a painting, trim and handsome, hands in his pants pockets with his jacket draped behind them. I wanted to fling my arms around him and cry, Daddy! But his look stopped me—calm down, calm down—and “That’s very short,” he said. I froze. Maybe he hadn’t meant my dress—had he meant my hair? The time it had taken my bus to cross town? No, he wouldn’t know that—was it possible I had misheard? But he cut into my thoughts in a low voice: “The homeless guy on the corner doesn’t need to see everything you own.”

Suddenly I was too sober. Or maybe I was about to throw up. I stood incredibly still, riding the wave of panic as I pictured vomiting at my father’s feet, don’t look at the carpet, and stared at a small crack on the doorframe instead.