ALL I WANTED when I was a child was for my parents to pay attention to me. They did not have time to play with me, certainly never during the week, so I spent my time playing by myself, flipping through my mom’s GRE books, doing logic puzzles, reading, planning, and waiting for Saturdays. I would beg my parents to take me out. Anywhere. I did not care—laundry, groceries, post office, though something preferably not errands. I loved our local zoo and children’s garden. “Saturday I’ll take you,” Mom would sometimes reply at night after an extra-long day, during which she cooked, cleaned, worked, studied, and often sewed new clothes for me from fabrics she had bought on sale. Saturday morning would come. I’d jump out of bed.

“Mommy! What time are we going to the zoo?”

Silence.

“Mommy?”

Silence.

“Mom? You said you would take me to the zoo today—”

“We’re not going.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why?”

“No reason.”

“But why don’t you want to?”

“No reason!” I could not understand why she was getting mad and shouting at me when she was the one who broke her word. “Stop bothering me!”