I first saw Teresa out my kitchen window back in 1928. Her father, a widower, had moved into our neighborhood. I was kneading dough when I looked up and watched the child glide her sled down a snowbank and slam into a tree. I ran across the street. “Are you hurt?” She scowled. “Mind your own beeswax.” I ignored her sass and asked if she would like a nice piece of hot homemade bread. She rubbed her bump with a …