I’m told I was an enthusiastic child, attacking everything I did with vigor, especially the crying. My mother always checked on me. I’m not sure what my father would have done if he had to silence me. My mother was always gentle, always bruised, always crying. Sometimes she was bruised because she was crying. Sometimes she was crying because she was bruised. Sometimes the bruises would change her face so much that I would think she was a different person. That always made her cry more, to see me cry at her. My father doesn’t like crying. It annoys him.