The noise was the point.

My mother’s regime had been silent; that was its signature.

A quiet, orderly, well-run house in which two people moved carefully and spoke little and made no sound that might draw attention.

I had mistaken that silence for peace for an entire year.

Now I knew the difference in my bones, and I would take the racket of a happy household over the silence of a fearful one every day for the rest of my life.

When I came home to chaos now, I stood in the doorway a moment and listened to it — the singing, the music, the small ordinary din of people who are not afraid — and it was the best sound I have ever known.