the real source of my anxiety, the thing that has an angry red flush flaring up my neck, is the possibility that, at any moment, the penny will drop, and you’ll frown and cock your head and look at me, really look at me, and say, “Wait, aren’t you the girl who . . . ?” This is always my fear when I meet someone new, because I am. I am the girl who. I was twelve years old when a man broke into our home and murdered my mother, father, and younger sister, Anna, seven years old then and forever.
