My aunt Claudine took me by the hand and led me to what would be my room, from then on. It was a tiny room on the roof terrace between the maid’s room where Isabel and Clemencia lived and the staircase leading down to the kitchen. In a hushed tone my aunt apologized for putting me in such an inhospitable place, but my coming had been a surprise and there were no free rooms in the house. I didn’t think it was so bad. I’d always been an observant child and I recognized the advantages of living in a structured house. It was the first time I had my own room, as space in my parents’ studio was divided only by folding screens and paper curtains. When she left me alone, I locked the door and drew the curtains. I moved my bed and took my clothing out of the suitcase and arranged it in the dresser drawers, as if moving in. While helping me pack, my mother had assured me that I would only stay at my aunt and uncle’s a little while, and so it didn’t make sense for me to bring all my belongings. “Maybe your father and I will reconcile,” I remember her saying, stammering like she always did. Still, I preferred to deal with this change as something definitive. That afternoon my cousins, a bit older than me, came up to say hi with a suspicious show of brotherliness I didn’t see again for months, and then went back to their respective activities until dinnertime. It was January, but no longer cold. In my memory, that weekend is like a peaceful haven. It surprised me that there existed a place where the only sounds of arguing voices came from soap operas, drifting out of the windows of the maid’s room.