Each stroke of my rosined-up bow across the strings sounded, in my ears, akin to an injured animal. But my family seemed to enjoy my musical masochism.
I was six or seven, and I stood a little ways from my father, who was grasping the handle of a small navy suitcase in one hand and, with the other, knocking on our bathroom door. His face was stoic, unmoved by the reality of being cast out, exiled from us.