I know, I know, adults never listen to what children tell them, and wouldn’t remember a detail like light or dark blue. If it had been Mom, this wouldn’t have bothered me at all, but I was sensitive and fragile around Dad, and kept getting hurt.

At home, there was a clear class difference between him and Mom. He was high up, in a position of ultimate power, and his love was impossible to compel—it could only be a gift. I longed for it so much.

I knew his favorite time was late at night, after Mom and I had fallen asleep. Once, I got up to use the bathroom, and saw him watching TV, a beer can on the coffee table. He was slouched on the sofa with his legs over the armrest, his face flushed. The house was full of steam—he’d just taken a shower and was in white long underwear, looking like a giant mollusk that had finally crawled out of its confining shell. He saw me standing in the doorway and said softly, Go to bed. Outside the shell, his voice was moist and tender.

Dad rarely brought Mom to gatherings of colleagues or classmates, but her occasional appearances made them sit up and take notice. They fit the classical image of love, the scholar and the beauty. Everyone assumed they must be happy together, but Dad didn’t want to pretend. The only exception was when we visited Grandpa.

Mom would take me clothes shopping before the New Year, in preparation for this visit. One year, I wanted a moss-colored sweater with a pocket in front like a kangaroo, but Mom said I’d worn something green the year before, and she didn’t want them thinking I was in the same outfit.

On the last day of the year, I started getting dressed around noon. New clothes, new shoes, a new headband, even a new hair ornament. The one I remember best is a shiny satin ribbon tied in a thick bow studded with little pearls that quivered as I walked, making me feel like a fine lady from the imperial court. My favorite hair clip was red with dark-green checks, but my mom wouldn’t let me wear it to Grandpa’s place because it was too small. She made me wear enormous ones instead, like hands grabbing the back of my head. As if a bigger hair ornament would make me look happier.

When we were both dressed, we’d stand in front of the mirror, and Mom would say smugly, “This ought to annoy them.”

“Why would they be annoyed?” I asked.

“Because they don’t want to see us doing well. They thought your dad would suffer after marrying me.”