Our kitchen is yellow and orange, warm like the sunlight that streams through the windows at five o’clock on a Saturday afternoon and hits the side of my face as I sit at the table, puzzling over a quadratic equation or flourishing a green highlighter over Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress. My dad sits at the table, reading BBC History Magazine, a Beethoven piano concerto or a Brahms serenade playing in the background. He taps a finger against the page in time to the music, every so often looking up to share with my mom and me an interesting fact he has just read. My…