But every now and then, if my father finagled his way out of his Saturday morning shift delivering packages for FedEx, he’d stroll into our apartment on a Friday night, toss his keys on the table, lean his head past the doorframe to whichever room my mother was posted in and say, “We’re going out tonight.”

You’d think she’d find this sweet, the spontaneity of it. Like in those old-timey movies where the husband comes home to tell his wife to throw on her best clothes, they’re hitting the town, and the wife drops whatever she’s doing to turn on the stereo and put on her face in the bathroom, all while her husband admires her from behind, sways side to side, shadowing her tempo — both of them smiling at each other in the mirror.

But this was real life, and in my real-life home, my mother didn’t like surprises.

“You just telling me this now?” she said one night.