At that, Mother got up and walked onto the small stage with one hand on her hip and a microphone in the other. A spotlight came on and everyone turned and started clapping. Auntie Miriam said to Auntie Elizabeth, “Swee Hua is quite the performer. She could have been the next Teresa Teng, but she came to Canada instead.”

There was always a moment at such celebrations, after things had slowed down, when Mother blossomed. She would pick a moment when Father had gone to the washroom, to the kitchen, or outside for a walk or a cigarette. When he returned, the sound of her voice over the speakers would pull him under her spell. Mother would put on brighter lipstick, stick a fake flower in her hair, and wear a larger smile. It was as if a different person were onstage.

Her repertoire was impressive. The crowd threw song titles at her in Cantonese, Mandarin, Hokkien, and even Hakka, and she belted out her versions while the karaoke machine tried to keep up. Father’s face glowed with pride when Mother sang, but he also hated sharing her. I watched as he stared bitterly at Uncle Stephen, who climbed clumsily onto the small stage and grabbed Mother’s waist, trying drunkenly to sing with her. Mother tried to push him away, and everyone started booing Uncle Stephen’s poor attempts at accompaniment. Auntie Choo Neo yelled at her husband in Hakka. He stumbled off the stage, and Auntie Choo Neo grabbed his collar and pulled him out of the restaurant. They were gone for the rest of the night.

Mother’s voice electrified the room and the crowd roared for her. The vitality of her performance and the vibrancy of her stage presence contrasted with the docile, fragile woman she was at home. I wondered if both these extremes were false, and underneath them somewhere my real mother existed.

When all the songs were sung, Mother left the stage and walked into Father’s embrace. I wanted to insert myself between them, to be part of their moment, but I also didn’t want to break it up too soon.

As we got ready to leave, we heard Auntie Carrie mumbling in mixed Chinese and English that she should have won at mah-jong because it was the night her only son was welcomed into the living world. The cash poured out of people’s pockets, the cigarettes were butted out, and the empty bottles were brought into the kitchen. Uncle Joe reminded people to bring home their da bao, and fathers picked up their sleeping children to carry them to the cars.

At home, Mother took my shoes and coat off and led me to my bedroom. Father followed with Bea. They slipped us into our shared bed and closed the door, but I was aware of their voices humming on the other side of the closed door.

The next day, Father was working a day shift, so he had left the house before Bea and I woke up. Mother’s face seemed paler and her eyes droopier than usual, as if the night had sucked the life out of her. Her dress was on the floor next to the bed. She looked at herself in the mirror and traced the lines by her eyes with her fingers as if she had never seen them before.