So perhaps that night I hid the notebook with greater care than usual: I climbed up on a chair and put it in the linen closet. It seemed to me that, hiding it, I could more easily overcome a doubt that had taken hold of me: that I had lived for some twenty years with my daughter, nourished her, brought her up, studied her character with loving attention, and had to admit that, in truth, I don’t know her at all.
