Mom was going on a work trip.
She was crouching in the entryway to change her shoes, and I stood beside her watching, holding Boo. She was wearing a beautiful trench coat today, her hair pinned up, her earrings switched out for silver ones. She looked different from how she usually looked at home.
Brighter. More distant.
Like someone you'd see on TV.
"Xia, Mom has to go to France for work for a few days. I'll be back before you know it." She reached out and touched my head, her fingers sliding gently through my hair.
She said "Mom" so naturally, like the word had always belonged to her. But in my head I still called her "that mom." Not because I didn't want to say it. It was more that I didn't feel like I'd earned it yet.
France.
I didn't know where France was, but it sounded very, very far. Farther than the orphanage was from this home.
"How many days?" I asked quietly.
"Five days." She held up five fingers. "After five days, Mom will be back."
Five days.
At the orphanage, five days was nothing. Every day was the same — wake up, eat, play, eat, sleep. Nobody ever left, because nobody was there just for me.
But now it was different.
Now there was someone who was there just for me, and she was leaving for five days.
I wanted to ask her: You'll definitely come back, right?
But I didn't say it out loud. I just stood there, pinching Boo's ears between my fingers, squeezing tight.
But she seemed to see it anyway.
She stopped fussing with her suitcase and turned around and crouched down again. Her eyes found mine, steady and serious, serious enough that I felt like she was looking straight into the middle of me.
"Xia, listen to me." She held both my hands in hers. "I will always come back. No matter how far I go, I will always come back. This home is our home. Wherever you are is the place I'm coming back to. Okay?"
When she finished, she pressed a kiss to my forehead.
Her lips were cool, with a faint trace of lipstick.
I nodded. Hard, once.
She stood up, straightened her suitcase handle, and turned toward the stairs. "Chenny," she called to my brother, who was leaning against the railing at the top, "while Mom's away, you'll look after your little sister, okay?"
My brother had his hands shoved in his sweatpants pockets. His expression said: this has nothing to do with me.
"She's not a baby," he said.
Mom smiled a little, didn't argue, just looked at me one more time — and then she wheeled her suitcase out the door.
The moment the door clicked shut, the house went very quiet.
Like someone had taken the sugar out of a glass of water. The water was still water, but it didn't taste the same anymore.
On the first morning, the first thing I did when I woke up was listen.
I lay in bed with my eyes closed, listening for the sound of heels in the hallway.
Nothing.
Usually around this time, Mom would come padding down the hall in her slippers and push my door open gently and say, Xia, time to get up. Her voice was like an alarm clock soaking in warm honey — not sharp, just something that lifted you up softly.
Today there was nothing.
The hallway was quiet.
I opened my eyes and looked at the rabbit night-light on the ceiling, still glowing — small and orange.
I rolled out of bed, put on my slippers, and folded my blanket. I folded it twice, checking all four corners until they were even, and then I picked up Boo and walked slowly downstairs.
There were sounds coming from the kitchen.
Not the sounds of Mom making breakfast. When Mom made breakfast there was the sound of fruit being cut, the blender running, and her humming softly to herself.
These sounds were different — a pot clanging against the burner grate, the faucet turned up too high and splashing everywhere, and then a low hiss, like someone had burned themselves.
I walked to the kitchen doorway and peeked in.
It was Dad.
He was standing at the stove wearing one of Mom's aprons. It was pink with little flowers on it, and tied around Dad it looked like someone had wrapped a tablecloth around a tree.
In front of him were three plates. One held two slices of toast, each burned halfway through. One held a fried egg with blackened edges. And the third one held a single, whole, completely unpeeled banana.
He saw me and went still for a moment, then put his hands behind his back — like he didn't want me to see the finger the oil had splattered.
"Morning," he said.
"Good… good morning."
I almost said Dad, but the word pulled back before it reached my mouth.
He gave a small nod, then looked at the things on the table. Two seconds of silence.
"I'm not very good at making breakfast," he said, in the same calm tone someone might use to report the weather.
I walked over and sat down in my spot. I looked at the fried egg on the plate, edges charred black, the yolk still whole and tilted to one side, like a closed eye.
"It looks really good," I said.
It was the longest sentence I had ever said to Dad on my own since coming to this home.
Dad looked at me. His expression didn't change much, but I thought I saw the corner of his mouth move.
Just a little. Then it stopped.
He came over and, like he had before, bent down and lifted me up into my chair. I wasn't as nervous this time, but I still noticed his smell — today there was no coffee, just a faint trace of cooking smoke.
He went back to his seat, peeled the banana, cut it into small pieces, put them in a little dish, and slid it in front of me.
"Your mom said you like bananas."
The way he said your mom had something in it — not careless, but more like I remembered what she told me.
My brother came down last. His hair was a mess, his T-shirt wrinkled, his face still half-asleep. He pulled out his chair and sat down and looked at the food on the table.
"…This is breakfast?"
"You don't have to eat it," Dad said.
My brother picked up a half-burned piece of toast and took a bite and chewed twice. His expression was complicated — like he was working very hard to convince himself that this was food.
"Dad, you really shouldn't cook anymore," he said.
"Then you cook," Dad said.
"I don't know how."
"Then eat."
My brother took another bite.
I took a bite too.
It wasn't actually that bad. The burned part was a little bitter, but the inside was still soft. I set Boo on my knees and slowly finished the toast.
Dad watched me finish, then went to the kitchen and came back with a glass of milk and set it in front of me. The same kind with the pink rabbit on the carton.
After breakfast, Dad went to his study to work.
He wasn't going into the office today — he was handling things from home on his computer. But before he went into the study, he paused in the doorway and looked back at me.
"Stay in the living room and watch TV," he said. "If you need anything, come find me."
I nodded.
But I wouldn't go find him.
Not because I was scared. It was more that I didn't know what needing something meant. At the orphanage, you didn't need things. You used what was there. If something wasn't available, wanting it didn't help.
I sat on the living room couch with Boo beside me, feet dangling off the edge, not quite reaching the floor. The TV was off. The room was quiet. I could hear Dad typing in the study, far away, one keystroke at a time.
My brother came downstairs with his handheld game console. He walked into the living room, saw me sitting alone on the couch doing nothing — just sitting — and stopped.
He looked at me for a moment, then walked to the other end of the couch and sat down and turned on his game.
The only sound in the room was the game console. Beep beep beep. Beep beep beep.
After a while, he said something out of nowhere.
"You're not going to watch TV?"
I shook my head.
"Remote's on the coffee table," he said, eyes still on his screen.
I looked at the remote. It was right there in the middle of the coffee table, close enough to reach.
But I didn't pick it up.
A few more minutes passed.
"…Are you going to watch it or not?"
His voice had a little edge to it. Not the kind of edge that meant he was angry at me — more like he didn't know what to do with a small child who didn't talk, didn't move, and wouldn't pick up the remote.
He sighed, reached over, grabbed the remote, turned on the TV, flipped to a cartoon channel without really looking, and dropped the remote next to me.
"Watch this."
On the screen, a blue cat was chasing a brown mouse. They kept crashing into things, making exaggerated sounds.
I watched for a while.
The cat was trying so hard, but it never caught the mouse. The mouse was small, but it always got away.
In one scene, the mouse ducked into a tiny hole in the wall, and the cat reached its paw in and stretched and stretched and couldn't quite reach.
I laughed.
Just a small one.
But my brother heard it.
He turned and looked at me. His expression was strange — like he'd just noticed something wasn't quite what he'd assumed it was.
Then he turned back to his game.
But I think he paused it for a second or two.
At noon, Dad came out of the study, stood in the kitchen doorway looking at the refrigerator for a moment, then took out his phone and ordered delivery.
Three orders.
He came into the living room and saw me and my brother sitting on opposite ends of the couch — one watching TV, one playing a game — with the whole length of the cushions between us.
He didn't say anything, but I felt his gaze pause for a moment.
When the food arrived, he set everything out. There were no pretty plates like Mom would have used — just the takeout containers straight on the table. But Dad did one thing: he scooped my portion into a bowl and used chopsticks to break the bigger pieces of meat into small ones, small enough to eat easily.
He didn't say I did this for you.
He just did it, and pushed the bowl in front of me.
I looked down at the small pieces of meat in my bowl, and my nose went a little tight.
Not from sadness.
It was more like — someone had remembered that my mouth was small. That I couldn't bite through pieces that were too big.
At the orphanage, meals came out of one big pot, scooped into bowls, and you ate what you got. Nobody had ever cut the meat smaller for me.
In the afternoon, Dad had to go to the office to pick up some documents.
"Twenty minutes and I'll be back," he said, putting on his shoes in the entryway.
Then he glanced toward the living room.
"Gu Chen."
"What?" My brother's voice drifted down from upstairs.
"I'm stepping out for a bit. Keep an eye on your sister."
"I'm in the middle of a game!"
"Keep an eye on her."
Dad's voice didn't get louder, but there was something in it that didn't leave room for argument. Not a command exactly — more like trust. Like he believed Gu Chen could do it.
The door closed.
It was just me and my brother in the house.
I sat on the couch with Boo beside me, legs tucked under me, quiet.
After a few minutes, my brother came downstairs.
He didn't say anything. He went to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, drank a few sips, then leaned against the kitchen doorframe and glanced casually into the living room.
Glanced at me.
Then he walked over and sat down at the other end of the couch. His usual spot, the whole couch between us.
He opened his game console.
But I noticed something — the spot he sat down in was a little closer than it had been this morning.
Not by much. About the width of one throw pillow.
The evening was the hardest part.
Dad worked very hard in the kitchen making dinner. This time he'd skipped the pink floral apron — he had on a dark blue one instead, which looked less ridiculous, though what came out of the kitchen was still pretty brave.
The vegetables were overcooked, gone from green to a dull yellow-green. The soup was thin and watery, like someone had added too much water. But the rice was made in the rice cooker, so it was fine.
I ate two bowls of rice. The vegetables were overcooked, but I finished them anyway.
My brother chewed through his portion with a furrowed brow, but he didn't leave anything either.
"Dad," he said, setting down his chopsticks, "can you call the housekeeper to come cook tomorrow?"
"She's taking the week off."
"Then order delivery."
"Your mom said she wants Xia eating home-cooked food."
My brother looked at me, then looked at the yellow-green vegetables on the plate.
"…Then let me cook tomorrow."
"You know how to cook?"
"I can learn."
Dad looked at him. This time I was sure — he smiled.
Not the kind where just the corner of his mouth moved. A real smile, brief, but I saw it.
After my bath, Dad came to my bedroom doorway.
"Did you dry your hair?" he asked.
I shook my head. Mom usually dried it for me, then used the blow dryer, and while she dried it she'd say, Xia's hair is so soft.
Dad came in holding a towel.
He sat on the edge of my bed, draped the towel over my head, and started rubbing.
His hands were big, and the motion wasn't as gentle as Mom's. He used a little too much force, and my head rocked side to side like a small tree in the wind. But he noticed, and eased up.
Then he picked up the comb.
He looked at my hair and was quiet for about five seconds.
"What does your mom usually put it in?"
"Two pigtails."
He nodded, like he was working through a math problem. Then he clumsily divided my hair into two sections — one bigger than the other, lopsided. He looped a hair tie around once; too loose, it slipped out. He looped it again; too tight, my scalp stung a little.
"Does that hurt?" he asked.
"A little."
He took it out and started over.
On the third try, it was still a little uneven. But it held, and it wasn't too tight.
He looked at his work with an expression as serious as if he were reviewing a company report.
"I'll practice tomorrow," he said.
I went to the small mirror in my room and looked.
Two pigtails, one higher than the other, the left one a little thicker than the right.
But I smiled.
Boo couldn't see, but I turned the mirror toward him anyway.
"Boo, look — he did it."
I still couldn't quite bring myself to say Dad. But I had the feeling he didn't mind whether I said it or not. What he minded was whether my hair was done right.
Before bed, I lay down, pulled the blanket up, and held Boo.
The rabbit night-light glowed orange on the ceiling.
Mom wasn't here, and the room was missing the sound of her coming in to say goodnight.
I closed my eyes, but I couldn't sleep.
In the dark, I started listening.
Listening for sounds in the hallway. Sounds from the next room. Listening to make sure this home was still here.
Next door was my brother's room.
Very quiet.
Past that was Mom and Dad's room.
Also quiet.
I pulled the blanket up to my nose and held Boo's ear in my hand.
"Boo," I said, in a voice only Boo could hear, "she said five days. Today was the first day. Four more to go."
I was still counting when my eyes started to close.
Just before I fell asleep, I heard footsteps in the hallway.
Light ones, one step at a time.
Not Dad's footsteps — Dad's were heavy and steady.
These were soft and small, like whoever it was didn't want to wake anyone.
The footsteps reached my door and stopped.
Stopped for about three seconds.
Then kept going.
Toward the bathroom.
A little while later, the footsteps came back, passed my door again, and went into the room next door.
The door closed softly.
It was my brother.
He had stopped outside my door.
I didn't know why he stopped. Maybe he didn't know either.
But he stopped.
The next morning when I came downstairs, the kitchen looked completely different.
It wasn't Dad.
It was my brother.
He was standing at the stove wearing an oversized T-shirt like an apron, a fried egg sizzling in the pan in front of him. His movements weren't very practiced — when he cracked the egg, a small piece of shell fell in, and he spent a long time fishing it out with chopsticks.
Dad was sitting at the table reading the newspaper, coffee in hand. Like nothing unusual was happening. Like a ten-year-old boy standing in the kitchen frying eggs was the most normal thing in the world.
My brother flipped the egg. This time it didn't burn — the edges came out golden.
He slid it onto a plate, then fried another one. He carried both plates to the table — one for me, one for himself.
"…Eat up."
He said it without looking at me, pretending to adjust his chopsticks.
I looked at the fried egg on my plate. The yolk was round and centered, more even than the one Dad had made yesterday.
"Big brother made it," I said quietly.
"You don't have to announce everything," he said.
But his ears had gone a little pink.
That night before bed, I tucked Boo in beside me, pulled up the blanket, and closed my eyes.
The soft footsteps came down the hallway again.
They stopped at my door.
This time, they stayed longer than the night before.
About five seconds.
And then I heard a very small sound, like he said something just outside the door.
Too quiet to make out.
Maybe it was goodnight.
Maybe it was nothing at all.
But I pulled the blanket up to my mouth and told Boo:
"Boo, he came back."
That night, I fell asleep in the middle of the bed, shifted a little to the right.
A little closer to the center than the night before.