When my mother was pulled into a pool in the midst of a raucous party, it was by my father, who was in the process of divorcing her. It was 2002, at a farm in Virginia. The dancing at the party was frenetic, and the two of them, Henry and Lindy, were at the center of it. Even as they were coming undone, they couldn’t stop dancing with each other. At some point someone pushed a guest, fully clothed, into the pool, setting off a cheerful melee of tumbling waterborne party goers. My mother playfully shoved her soon-to-be ex-husband, and as he fell, he grabbed her arm and she tumbled in on top of him. They were underwater unraveling limb from limb, and when my father emerged to the surface he screamed bloody murder.

My mother claims she wasn’t trying to drown him; that she couldn’t control where she fell in after him. I believe her. She’s not the murderous type. But he went on to repeat the story throughout Washington, D.C., and all the way to Munich, where most of his family lived. Can you believe Lindy tried to drown me?

A year before the party, 9/11 happened, and my parents were still living in the house together. My brother, sister, and I were in New York. We each made it to our homes safely, and when the phone lines opened, we called one another. My sister insisted we all drive to Connecticut, to her mother-in-law’s house. My husband and I were in our apartment in Little Italy. I wanted to stay. The phone rang again, and it was Lindy and Henry. They were on the kitchen phone, they said. I could picture their faces pressed together to the receiver, and I yearned for them. They told me to go; they said they needed to know we were all safe.