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And the house got darker. My parents’ room was on the second floor, and the living room—where all the action took place—was on the first floor just below it, on the left side of the house. That meant that when Mom and Dad were gone, all of the lights were off on that entire side of the house. It was gloomy, ghostly and very lonely.

I didn’t like coming home after school through the front door, because it was right in the middle of the house, and you could really sense the dark chill of their absence. So I used the back door, walking through the kitchen and up the back stairs to the kids’ rooms, on the other side of the house.

To this day, I hate a dark house. Wherever I live is lit up like a Christmas tree. The lights are on in every room.

Whenever Dad was away and Mom was home, we’d take turns sleeping in bed with her. Some nights we’d all sleep with her. She liked that—she was lonely, too. When it was time for her to join Dad on the road, we would cry and beg her not to leave.

“Why do you have to go?” we’d wail. Mom had the most brilliant and practical explanation.

“Daddy has to go away so he can work,” she’d say, “so we can buy all the nice things we have and live in our pretty house. And poor Daddy gets lonely for his girls. So one of us has to go and keep him company. And since you have school, I’m the one who has to go.”

That always settled it. The only thing was, whenever we would visit “poor Daddy” on the road and go to one of his shows, he never seemed all that sad. On stage, his eyes would be glistening like they were dancing, and he’d have that same mischievous look on his face that he had at home when he would tease us about something. He was never happier than when he was working in front of an audience, making people laugh. You could see it.

When my parents were on the road, we were left in the care of Melanie and Anderson, the couple who had been with us all our young lives, and who we dearly loved. My parents also made sure there was always family in the house, like an aunt or an uncle. Some we loved, others we didn’t even like. And, of course, there was the ever-rotating nanny.

All aboard—again.

My dad once told us a joke about a man who goes to Russia, and warns his wife that they censor your mail there. So they come up with a plan: If what he writes in his letter is true, he’ll use blue ink. If it’s false, he’ll write in red ink.

His first letter arrives. It’s in blue ink, and it says: “Russia is one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen. The people are happy and friendly. There is plenty to eat, the food is wonderful, and there are lovely shops everywhere. In fact, they have everything here in Russia that we have in America. Everything but red ink.”

This became my family’s code for how we felt about who was taking care of us when they went out of town. My parents would call and ask, “So, how do you like Gert?”—referring to our new nurse, the one who’d surely been trained by the Nazis.

“We love her,” we’d say. “She’s great. Red ink! Red ink!”

Mother would be home on the next plane.

The week leading up to my parents’ return was always exciting. Terre and I would write songs, poems and skits to welcome them back. We’d hang a sign on the front door that read, “WELCOME HOME MOM & DAD!” then make pom-poms and write little cheers.

“You are the best mom and dad in the land . . . !”

The day our parents were to arrive, we’d watch excitedly through the front window to see when their car was approaching. Then we’d sprint out the front door and go into our routine. They would barely be out of the car, and we were all over them like puppies—hugging and squealing and looking for our presents. The circus was back.

WHEN I WAS TWELVE, I wrote an essay in school called “Viva Today.” It was about how everyone was so busy working for tomorrow, that they sometimes forgot about living their lives today. I used my father as an example.

“He’s always away, working hard to make a better tomorrow for his children,” I wrote, “but when