Which meant we had to look like we were doing well. Although Dad never actually said so, I could sense this was what he wanted. But what did that mean? All the way there, my heart was in knots, wondering how I should behave. Then we arrived, and it came to me naturally. Helping Mom brush flour off her clothes after making dumplings, taking Dad’s hand when we went onto the balcony to see the fireworks. At midnight, when the firecrackers went off, I’d cover my ears and bury my face in his chest. Mom would ask Dad to help roll up her sleeves, or take off her ring and give it to him for safekeeping before doing the washing up, casually mentioning to my grandma and aunt that this was Dad’s latest gift to her. Dad silently went along with whatever we were doing. During the meal, he’d serve Mom with his own chopsticks—a breach of etiquette in that household, where every dish came with communal chopsticks.

I knew none of this was real, but it genuinely made me happy. I looked forward to New Year’s Eve: the costumes, the performance, the three of us starring in our own variety show.

The year I turned seven, Grandma turned to Mom at the start of the meal and asked how work was going at the kindergarten.

“I told her to stop doing that,” said Dad. “That place was short-staffed. She had to do the cleaning as well as taking care of the kids. It was exhausting her.”

That was the first time I heard my dad lie. Mom hadn’t resigned, she’d been fired to make way for a graduate from the Teachers’ Training College. This was before my aunt and uncle left the country. My aunt, a professor at the Medical University, offered to ask around to see if there was something Mom could do, perhaps on the support staff. Dad shook his head and said that was men’s work.

“There are jobs for women too,” protested my aunt. “In the cafeteria or the dorms …”

“No need,” said Dad. “Let her relax at home for a while.”

After we’d finished our dumplings, Grandma got out the envelopes of New Year money for me and Peixuan. As the grown-ups sat in front of the TV watching the year-end variety show, we went to the outer room to open our red packets. The new banknotes had a sweet fragrance. The people on them looked pure, their faces unwrinkled. When we counted our notes, I had five and she had three. That was too big a difference to be accidental. I went to tell my dad right away.

His face darkening, Dad turned to look at Grandma. She put down the apple she was peeling, and hastily explained that as Mom was out of work, she’d given me a little extra. The room grew very quiet, apart from the waves of applause and laughter from the TV. I looked sideways at the screen, where two men in Zhongshan suits were performing a crosstalk comedy routine. One of them started reciting an entire dinner menu in a single breath, and I felt hungry again.