The second morning at the Gu house, I was woken up by birds.
Not the group wake-up bell from the orphanage. Not the ladies in the hallway calling out "Up, up, everybody up!" It was birds. Real birds, perched somewhere on a branch just outside the window, chirping and chattering like they were arguing with someone.
I opened my eyes and saw a pink ceiling.
I blinked.
Then I remembered — this was my room. Mine.
Those two words still felt strange.
Boo was beside me on the pillow, head tilted, looking at me. One ear had slipped out again. I tucked it back in the way I always did.
"Morning, Boo."
I sat up. The blanket slid down to my waist. The light outside was pale gold, filtering through white curtains and pooling on the covers, warm and soft. I reached out and touched the patch of light. My fingers slipped into it, and a thin brightness appeared across the back of my hand.
At the orphanage, the first thing you did every morning was fold your blanket. If you didn't fold it right, you got told off.
I looked at the big bed. Then I started folding.
I folded it three times.
The first time the corners didn't line up. The second time was better, but there was a lump in the middle that wouldn't lie flat. The third time I shook the whole blanket out and started over — lined up both corners, pressed the middle flat with my palm, smoothed it again and again until there wasn't a single wrinkle.
Then I set Boo in the center of the pillow.
Then I stood at the edge of the bed and looked.
The whole bed looked like no one had slept in it.
That felt right.
I walked downstairs slowly.
The staircase was wide, with a handrail. The wood of the handrail was smooth. My fingers trailed along it lightly — I didn't dare grip too hard. Each step made a soft sound under my feet, and I tried to make myself lighter, and lighter still. At the orphanage, if you walked too loud, the ladies would say "Quiet."
A smell drifted out from the kitchen.
Eggs, and something sweet and soft underneath that I couldn't name, but it made my stomach let out a low growl. I pressed my hand over it quickly, afraid someone might hear.
Mom was standing at the kitchen counter in a light blue house dress, her hair twisted up loosely on top of her head. She looked completely different from the woman in the pretty dress yesterday — but somehow, like this, she seemed warmer.
She heard my footsteps and turned around.
"Xia! Good morning!"
Her smile was wide, like she'd been waiting a long time for me to come down.
I nodded. My mouth moved, but the sound came out very small. "…Morning."
"Come sit, it's almost ready." She turned back and flipped something in the pan, then carried a plate to the table.
The table was already covered with food. Fried eggs, toast, a bowl of plain congee, a few small side dishes. The toast had jam on it — orange-red, bright and pretty. And a glass of milk in a pink cup with a rabbit painted on it.
I stared at that rabbit for a few seconds. It looked a little like Boo.
Dad was already at the table, a newspaper spread in front of him, a coffee cup in one hand. He saw me standing in the doorway and set the cup down.
"Xia. Come on over."
His voice was low. Not exactly gentle, but not stern either. Just steady. Steady like him.
I walked over slowly.
The table had four seats. Dad sat on one side. Mom's spot was next to his — her cup was already there. Of the other two seats, one had the pink rabbit milk glass in front of it. That one was mine. The other had nothing.
That was my brother's seat.
He wasn't there.
I stood in front of my chair, fingers pinching the hem of my pajamas. The chair was a little high. I looked at it, unsure how to climb up. At the orphanage we sat on long benches, low to the ground — you just sat down. But this chair had a back, a cushion, and it came up past my waist.
I was still trying to figure it out when Dad stood up.
He walked over to me, didn't say a word, bent down, and slid both hands under my arms. He lifted me up — gently, steadily — and set me in the chair.
The whole thing took maybe two seconds.
But in those two seconds, I caught his smell. A little bitter from the coffee. Clean from the laundry soap. And something else underneath, something dry and quiet, the smell of a grown-up.
I had never been held by a dad before.
That's not the same as never being held by an adult. The ladies at the orphanage picked us up sometimes, but that was a moving-you-from-one-place-to-another kind of hold. Quick, like carrying something.
Dad's hold was different.
His hands were big. When they held me, they were steady — unhurried, careful, like he was afraid of hurting me. When he set me down, it was slow, and he waited until I was settled before he let go.
He went back to his seat, picked up his coffee, turned a page of the newspaper.
Like nothing had happened.
But the warmth of his hands was still there under my arms. Two small, warm patches.
I sat up straight, hands on my knees, looking at the food in front of me.
So much of it.
At the orphanage, breakfast was a bowl of thin rice porridge. Sometimes half a steamed bun. Sometimes a small dish of pickled vegetables. One portion per person, no more, no less. You didn't choose. There was nothing to choose.
Now there was all of this in front of me, and I didn't know which thing to touch.
Mom sat down across from me and used her chopsticks to place a piece of fried egg in my bowl.
"Here, start with the egg. I got it just right today — not too soft, not too firm."
I looked at the egg in my bowl.
Then I looked at Mom's bowl.
Then at Dad's.
Neither of them had started eating.
I didn't dare go first.
At the orphanage, when we ate together, you had to wait until the ladies said "go ahead." If you picked up your chopsticks early, you got called greedy, got told you had no manners.
So I waited.
Hands on my knees, pinching my fingers one by one. Thumb first, then index finger, all the way to the pinky, then back to the thumb again.
Mom glanced at me.
She didn't say "why aren't you eating?" She just picked up her own chopsticks, took a bite of vegetables, and said, "Mm, the greens came out nice today. Xia, try some."
Dad picked up his chopsticks too.
They started eating.
I counted to about three in my head, made sure they were really eating, and then slowly picked up my chopsticks.
The first bite of egg — when I bit into it, I thought: how can anything taste this good? The edges were a little crisp, the middle was soft, and it was just barely salty, the kind of salty that feels exactly right.
I ate very slowly. Chewed every bite many times.
Not because it wasn't good. Because I was afraid that when it was gone, there wouldn't be any more.
Halfway through breakfast, footsteps came down the stairs.
Gu Chen walked in. He was wearing pajamas, hair messy, eyes half-closed, not quite awake. He looked taller than yesterday — maybe because yesterday he'd been farther away. Now he walked into the dining room and passed right by me, and I had to tilt my head back to see his face.
He didn't look at me.
He went straight to the empty seat and pulled out the chair with a scrape.
"Mom. Milk."
He didn't even say good morning.
Mom had already poured a glass of milk — I don't know when — and carried it over to him. The cup was dark blue, no design on it. A boy's cup.
He picked it up, took a sip, and started eating.
He ate completely differently from me. Fast, chopsticks reaching far across the table, grabbing whatever he wanted without hesitating. He picked up a piece of toast with his hand and took a big bite, got jam on the corner of his mouth, wiped it off with the back of his hand.
Mom shook her head beside him. "Chenny. Use a napkin."
"Yeah." He pulled one out and dragged it across his mouth.
Then he looked up, like he was going for the last piece of fried egg on the plate.
I happened to be looking at that piece of egg too.
Not because I wanted it — though it did look like the best one, edges golden, center slightly puffed — but because I'd been watching it for a while, wondering if it was being saved for someone.
Our chopsticks nearly met in the air.
He looked at me.
I pulled mine back immediately.
Fast, like I'd touched something hot.
"You take it," he said.
His voice was flat. Not generous, not unkind. Just… like he was stating something obvious.
But I shook my head.
"It's okay… I'm full."
I wasn't. There was still half a bowl of congee in front of me. But I didn't want him to think I was taking something from him.
He looked at me for a second. Something moved in his brow — I couldn't tell if it was a frown or just a muscle shifting. Then he reached out and took the egg, put it in his own bowl, and finished it in a few bites.
When he was done, he stood up, pushed his chair back, told Mom "I'm heading up," and went upstairs.
From start to finish, he said two words to me.
You take it.
That morning, I sat alone in the living room.
Mom had gone to the study to sort through something. She'd said "you can watch TV or play in here, whatever you like" and then she was gone. Dad had left for work. Gu Chen was upstairs with his door closed.
Just me in the whole living room.
I sat in the corner of the sofa, holding Boo. Same position as yesterday. Same spot.
The TV remote was on the coffee table, close enough to reach without even leaning. But I didn't touch it. It was their TV. At the orphanage, only the ladies could turn on the TV. Kids weren't allowed to touch it themselves.
The fruit plate was still on the coffee table. Today it had been refreshed — grapes, cherry tomatoes, sliced apple. The apple slices were cut neatly, each one with a little fork stuck in it, arranged like a flower.
I looked at it for a long time.
Swallowed.
Then I looked away.
Nobody had said I could eat it. What if it was for my brother? What if they'd be upset if I took some?
I held Boo and rested my chin on its head, looking out at the garden through the window. The garden was big — grass, flowers, a large tree. A swing hung from the tree. It swayed gently, pushed by the wind, like an invisible child was playing on it.
I wanted to go out and swing.
But I didn't move.
"Boo," I said quietly, "there's a swing out there."
Boo tilted its head.
"We'll go later," I said. "When Mom says it's okay."
I sat like that for the whole morning.
At noon, Mom came out of the study.
She walked into the living room and saw me in the corner, holding Boo, in exactly the same position as when she'd left. She stopped. Her expression changed — not to something angry, but to something I couldn't quite read. It looked a little like it hurt her, but I wasn't sure, because not many people had ever looked at me that way.
"Xia, have you been sitting here all morning?"
I nodded.
"You didn't go out to the garden?"
I shook my head.
"Didn't watch TV?"
Shake.
"Didn't eat any fruit?"
Shake.
She came over and sat down beside me. The sofa dipped, and my body tilted slightly toward her. I straightened up quickly.
She didn't say anything right away. A few seconds of quiet.
Then she reached over, picked up one of the apple slices with its little fork, and placed it in my hand.
"Xia, this fruit is here for the whole family to eat. You're part of this family. You can take some whenever you want — you don't need to wait for anyone to say it's okay."
I looked down at the apple in my hand.
A small drop of water clung to the fork, round and clear, sliding slowly across the apple's surface.
"Same with the TV," she continued, her voice soft and unhurried, like she was making sure I understood every word. "The remote is right there — you can watch whatever you want. The garden too. The swing too. All of it is yours to use."
She paused.
"You don't need anyone's permission."
My fingers tightened around the little fork.
My lips moved.
"…Really?"
"Really."
She smiled. Then she did something that made me go still — she reached over and took an apple slice for herself, bit into it, chewed, and looked at me. "See? Mom's eating too. Let's eat together."
I looked at her.
Then I brought the apple to my mouth and took a very, very small bite.
Sweet. Cool and crisp, the juice spreading through my mouth like a tiny burst of water.
I took another bite.
This one was a little bigger than the last.
Mom smiled beside me. Her eyes curved into crescents. But I thought I saw her lashes go wet for just a moment — just once, and then it was gone.
That afternoon, I finally made it to the garden.
Not on my own. Mom took me by the hand.
At the door she helped me into a pair of white sandals — new ones, clean soles, a little flower on each strap. While she crouched down to tie them, I looked down at the top of her head. At the part in her hair, a small strip of pale scalp showed through.
This was Mom's head.
I had never looked at a grown-up from this angle before.
The garden was bigger than it looked from the window. The grass was soft underfoot, warm and green-smelling, like it had been soaking up sun all morning. There were lots of flowers — some already open, some still in bud, curled tight like small fists.
The swing was under the big tree.
Mom walked me over and helped me sit on it. The wooden seat was wide; I only took up the middle part. The ropes were thick, just the right size for my hands to grip.
"Hold on tight," Mom said.
Then she gave me a gentle push from behind.
The swing lifted.
Wind rushed past my ears. My hair flew up. The garden stretched wide, then close, then wide again. The blue of the sky swayed above me, and the clouds drifted slowly like something had stirred them.
The corner of my mouth moved.
Not a smile. Not quite. Just the corner of my mouth lifting on its own, just a little.
Mom pushed again, a little harder this time. The swing went higher. My stomach felt light and floaty, like I might lift off.
A little scary.
But also — maybe — a little bit good.
"Is it fun?" Mom called from behind.
I nodded. The wind made it come out crooked. I wasn't sure she saw.
The swing slowed. My toes touched the ground and dragged a small line through the grass.
I sat on the swing, holding the ropes, quiet. The wind moved my bangs. Sunlight came through the leaves in scattered pieces, landing in patches on my skirt.
That's when I felt someone watching me.
Not Mom. From another direction — upstairs.
I looked up.
Gu Chen's window. The curtain was open just a crack.
I saw half a face.
Just for a moment.
Then the curtain fell back into place. Fast, like the wind had moved it.
But it wasn't the wind. The wind was blowing the other way today.
I looked back down at the little broken pieces of light on my knees, and a small thought surfaced quietly —
He was watching me.
Was my big brother watching me?
I didn't look up again. I was afraid that if I did, the window would be empty, and I'd have imagined the whole thing.
So I spoke toward where Boo was — Boo was inside, in the living room, not with me — and said it quietly in my head:
"Boo, maybe big brother doesn't hate me that much."
"Maybe."
At dinner, the whole family sat together.
This was my second time at this table.
Mom had made braised pork, stir-fried greens, egg drop soup, and a small bowl of steamed egg. The steamed egg was silky smooth, perfectly flat on top, drizzled with soy sauce. It smelled wonderful.
Compared to eating the apple at noon, I was a little less nervous.
But I still didn't dare reach for anything myself.
I waited.
Mom placed a piece of braised pork in my bowl. "Go ahead, Xia."
I looked down and ate it.
Then I ate my plain rice.
I ate the rice slowly, one small bite at a time. When the food in my bowl was gone, I ate the rice. When the rice was gone, I set down my chopsticks and put my hands back on my knees.
There was still most of the braised pork left on the table, a bowl of greens, plenty of egg drop soup.
But I had stopped.
Mom looked at me. "Xia, are you full?"
I nodded.
"Are you sure? You didn't eat very much. Is there anything else you'd like?"
I shook my head.
"No thank you… thank you, Mom."
Mom's chopsticks paused in the air. She looked at the food on the table, then at me. Like she wanted to say something, but didn't.
Across from me, Gu Chen had his head down, eating fast. He was already on his second bowl of rice.
Then a piece of braised pork dropped into my bowl.
I froze.
It wasn't Mom.
It came from my right — from Gu Chen's direction.
I looked up at him.
He wasn't looking at me. He was eating from his own bowl, eyes down, chopsticks picking up greens, jaw moving steadily.
Like he hadn't put anything in my bowl. Like nothing had happened.
Mom had seen it too. The corner of her mouth curved up, but she was smart enough not to say a word. She just looked down and took a sip of soup, pretending to study the egg ribbons in her bowl.
Dad turned a page of his newspaper. He seemed to have noticed something too, but his expression was as calm as a stock chart.
I looked down at the piece of pork in my bowl.
It was a little bigger than the one Mom had given me earlier. The skin was glossy and rich-looking. It looked very good.
I picked it up and put it in my mouth.
It was so good.
The same flavor as Mom's piece — exactly the same — but somehow this one tasted warmer.
I chewed it for a long, long time before I swallowed.
Not because it was tough. Because I wanted to remember the taste.
That night, I got up again.
Bare feet on the hallway floor, soft and quiet.
I walked to the door of Mom and Dad's room. Listened.
There were soft voices inside. Mom's voice, gentle and coaxing, like she was teasing Dad about something. Then Dad's low, muffled reply.
They were there.
I turned to go back to my room.
I passed Gu Chen's door. The paper sign — Gu Chen's room. Do not enter. — glowed faintly in the nightlight.
I stopped.
I leaned in a little closer.
No sound from inside.
Maybe he was already asleep.
I was about to leave when something came from behind the door — very soft, like the sound of someone turning over and pulling the blanket with them.
Then a sigh.
A small one. Not the kind a grown-up makes. More like the kind a ten-year-old boy makes when he's been thinking about something for a long time, can't figure it out, and finally just lets the breath go.
I stood outside the door, arms wrapped around myself.
The nightlight in the hallway fell on my toes — warm yellow, like a small puddle of melted honey.
I spoke in my head to Boo, all the way downstairs in the living room:
"Boo, big brother isn't asleep either."
"Is he thinking about something too?"
"What is he thinking about?"
I didn't know.
But at least — he hadn't locked the door.
The do not enter sign was still there. But the door wasn't locked.
I don't know why, but that felt important.
I went back to my room, pulled the blanket up, and closed my eyes.
The little bugs were still crawling around inside me. But tonight there seemed to be fewer of them than last night.
Maybe it was because of the braised pork.
Maybe it was because of the unlocked door.
Maybe it was just because — someone had peeked at me through a curtain.
"Boo," I said in my head, "today was day two."
"They didn't send me back."
"Tomorrow, they won't either. Right?"
I curled myself into a small ball in the middle of the big bed.
Big bed. Small me.
But a little better than yesterday.
Yesterday I was pressed all the way into the corner. Tonight I had moved toward the middle. Just a little.
Only a little.
But still — a little.