“Since we rarely get to see both of you at the same time,” Pàpa says, handing Eva and me plates with huge slices of onion pie, “I thought I’d make something traditional.”

“Yay!” Eva digs into her slice. “Love flammkuche.”

“I know.” Pàpa watches her chew her first bite. “Verdict?”

Eva swallows and raises her wine glass. “Three yummy stars.”

Pàpa grins, mighty pleased.

“The Riesling could’ve been better, though,” my sister declares with her nose in her glass.

“Really?” Pàpa takes a sip from his own glass and nods. “Next time you’ll pick it, OK?”

Eva bows theatrically. “It’ll be an honor, sir.”

Those two have always had a special bond, cemented by their positivity and love of good food. Màma and I have a less cheerful disposition. Which doesn’t automatically mean we enjoy the same bond Eva and Pàpa do.

Come to think of it, I don’t really enjoy a “bond” with anyone.

Once, when we were in our teens, Eva made a remark that stayed with me.

“Why are you so aloof all the time?” she asked.

I disagreed with that characterization, of course, but I did wonder—why, indeed? And it was only a couple of years ago that I figured out, after many an hour of soul-searching, what keeps me from confiding in Màma and Pàpa the way Eva does.

It isn’t a lack of affection.

God knows, I love them. Together with Eva, they’re my favorite people in the world, and my most ardent wish is that they be as healthy and happy as humanly possible.

What holds me back is fear. I’m scared that if I let them closer, they’ll see me for who I really am and they won’t like it.

I tune out of Eva and Pàpa’s lively chat while an old memory returns as vivid as ever.

I’m thirteen.

I wake up in the middle of the night to my parents’ unusually loud voices coming from the kitchen. They’re engaged in an animated conversation with a third person, a woman I can’t identify. My curiosity piqued, I tiptoe down the hallway, sit down at the top of the staircase, and listen.

“So, if you could lend me the five grand,” the strange woman says, “I’ll be able to repay my debt in full.”

“And you’re sure your pimp will let you go?” Pàpa asks.

I clap my hand to my mouth in shock. I’ve seen enough forbidden movies to know exactly what a pimp is.

“Oh, he will,” the woman says. “I’m not some helpless Eastern girl who doesn’t know her rights and is scared shitless. I’m a French national, and I’ve covered my back.”

“Smart girl,” Màma says.

“His only leverage is the money I owe him,” the woman says.

There is a moment of silence, and then the woman speaks again. “I asked my family, and I asked my banker, but those were dead ends. Believe me, I wouldn’t have come to you if I had other options.”

“You’ve come to the right place,” Màma says.

“I heard your sermon last Sunday when you talked about fresh starts.” The woman pauses before adding, “It inspired me.”

“Give us a couple of days to reflect and look into our finances, OK?” Pàpa says.

I have no doubt what the outcome of their thinking will be. They’ll help her. On top of being professional helpers—a pastor and a policeman—my parents send monthly checks to the Red Cross, Doctors Without Borders, and Amnesty International. They also sponsor four little girls on different continents by paying their school fees. When they receive handwritten letters from those girls, they take the time to read them and to write long, thoughtful replies.

In short, helping people is what my parents do, both for a living and for fun.

“Thank you from the bottom of my heart,” the woman says, emotion palpable in her voice.

I hear chairs move and scramble away from the staircase.

“We’ll call you before the weekend,” Màma says, opening the door. “And remember, you’re not alone, Suzelle.”

Suzelle.

For the next two days all I can think of is Suzelle the Repentant Sinner. How I wish I’d caught a glimpse of her! I’m filled with a mix of fascination and awe for the fallen woman determined to walk away from her unholy life. In the hopes to see her if she returns—when she returns—I keep myself awake reading with a flashlight under my blanket.

And then, on Friday night, I hear my parents discuss the subject in the kitchen—only without Suzelle this time.

“I’ll report it to the Commissaire,” Pàpa says, his voice devoid of its usual warmth. “It’s my duty.”

“We promised we’d call her,” Màma says.

“We’re not bound by that promise, Petra. We owe her nothing.”

There’s a long pause, then Màma says, “You’re right.”

They turn off the light in the kitchen after that, so I pad to my bed and crawl under the covers, taking care not to wake Eva up.

Needless to say, I didn’t sleep that night.

Rather than quietly helping Suzelle, my parents were going to set the police on her pimp. They’d opted to do what was right rather than what was kind. Even if it put Suzelle at risk.

Maybe their charity had its limits, after all.

And it didn’t extend to fallen women.