Mom, my older sister, my twin brothers, and I are in the big sitting room drinking tea and listening to the radio. My little sister is asleep in the smaller room, where Mom’s bed is. When someone rings the doorbell around eight-thirty, Mom’s eyes get empty and distant. She buttons the lowest button on her muumuu and pulls her hand through her hair. “Please, Mom, don’t open the door,” my little brother whispers. Mom only looks straight ahead. The doorbell rings again, a longer tone this time. “Take those things away,” she says absentmindedly, nodding at the tea tray. It’s my task to try to hide things that are easily broken. Fortunately, we no longer have a teapot that we care about. We’ve been brewing our tea in a regular pot on the stove for the past few months, and that’s been fine. As I’m running to the kitchen with the tray, the pounding on the front door begins. Soon I’ll hear Daddy’s voice through the mail slot. He usually calls for me, telling me to open the door.
