One was vast and gated and warm and full of every comfort money could buy, and its doors stayed locked against a freezing child.

The other was ordinary, and much smaller, and had a nightlight and a backpack by the bed and drawings pinned above a desk, and its doors would open, always, in any storm, to any knock.

For years I had confused the first kind of house with safety, had looked at the gates and the wealth and believed they meant a child would be protected.

I know better now.

Safety was never in the walls or the heating or the size of the estate.

It was only ever in the answer to one question, the simplest question there is, the one a frightened child asks in the dark without words every single time he knocks: will someone open the door.

In that beautiful house, the answer was no.

In this ordinary one, it will always, for as long as I am alive, be yes.