Call it lucid dreaming or sleepwalking. In the morning his clothes are folded and rolled in perfect military style. Socks lined in a row on the dresser. He accuses my mother of meddling with his belongings, but how could she know where to crease and tuck, what his hands have done in the night?
Locking the bedroom door wasn’t enough to keep us safe when he would come home late. His pounding fist shaking the frame and metal latch. We would sneak out the backdoor and run in our nightgowns and coats to the neighbor’s house–my maternal grandmother–who always kept the kitchen light on for us.