Plans changed when Henry came along. By that point, Papa had finished the master’s portion of his degree, but duty overrode personal ambition. Instead of completing his doctorate like she had, he decided to teach high school to provide for the family. Figured he could continue working on his translations on the side. During the process of getting a teaching license, he was subbing classes, a real hit-or-miss gig. Never knew when a 6:00 a.m. phone call would send him scrambling out of bed and out the door. If the phone didn’t ring, he would spend his days at the dining table doing his own research. Such discipline, such dignity, Mom sighed, then gave another sad smile. Although any aspirations of becoming a professor were long gone, his papa hadn’t given up the look. Should have seen him in his dungarees and those elbow-patched corduroy blazers. Smoked Dunhills, for christ’s sake. He wasn’t a big man, not even for a Filipino, but he knew how to carry himself. Sturdy, self-assured, as if he could walk through walls. At least Mom had thought so. At least she’d fallen for it.

Papa lasted four, maybe five months.

Ever since they met, he’d been trying so hard to shake off those stubborn traces of his accent. Sometimes, midconversation, she would catch him repeating the sentence she’d just said under his breath, rolling syllables into place like a peppermint on his tongue. Always thought it a shame, all that effort to subdue something she’d found so endearing.

Some punk kid had found Papa’s accent pretty cute, too. The student imitated Papa to the delight of a full and very white classroom. And so Papa put the child in his place.

Luckily the kid’s parents didn’t sue, but any chance at a license, here or anywhere else stateside, was out of the question, diminishing the value of his master’s diploma to that of the card stock it was printed on. How were you supposed to feed a family with an English degree? After months of job hunting and then a few more of nothing, a cousin of Papa’s made some calls and put him in touch with a contractor, and that was that. Got a job flipping run-down, inner-city properties commandeered by the nouveau riche. Kept a cassette player clipped onto his tool belt, audiobooks keeping him sane. His papa ended up yet another bitter man of letters, and—uh-oh—one with an arsenal of power tools.

“That was a joke,” Mom said.

Henry waited. She turned to the dining table, where billing envelopes, coupon clippings, crinkled receipts, and a calculator had taken the place of Papa’s novels, dictionaries, and typewriter.

“There’s plenty in this world to be mad about, Henry,” she said, “but not enough to be mad at it.”