“There was never any joy in it. I practiced every day since I was four years old. I was just afraid of what would happen if I stopped. My father was a ‘rageaholic.’ Even our piano playing came from a place of hate. He wanted to humiliate his colleagues and prove that his children were superior. He was a hematologist. He was respected in his field. His only friends were his colleagues. Occasionally he’d have them over to dinner. Or more accurately, they’d invite him first and he’d feel the need to reciprocate. Those dinners were an escape for my sister and me. He’d never act out his worst stuff in front of other people. I think the other doctors could sense something was wrong, but nobody ever pulled me aside. It felt like I was trapped in a castle with an evil king and queen and nobody was allowed inside. People did come in, of course. But they would never meddle. They were his guests and it’s not polite.”
