My father spent a long time looking at The Book of Summers, turning each page with solemnity. I watched him, seeing it all again through his eyes. A world that he was never a part of, one that I’d purposefully kept hidden from him, thinking that it was the right thing to do. He’d never probed, I’d never offered, and we’d rubbed along without question or answer. I thought of all the secrets, the barely dared thoughts, the never-finished poems, the crossed-out scribbled wishes. Our house had always been stuffed full of them, beneath skirting boards, misted writing on mirrors, the creases of pillows that were flattened from punching and damp from tears. The three of us always hid things because we thought it was somehow better. We were dreamers, I suppose. And the worlds we inhabited were of our own fierce making.