As I sat there feeling a familiar ache inside me, an old memory came to me, without my calling, often like these memories do. I must have been ten or twelve years old in the memory, and I could see myself in my maternal grandmother’s house. I used to often spend my summer vacations with my maternal relatives. I guess my parents needed some time off me, as I did off them. I wouldn’t mind spending the days there, as it meant no more evenings full of terror-filled waiting as I dreaded the sound of the doorbell and the state my father would walked in, and the fights between my parents that followed. I felt invisible and doomed.