“That’s easy for you to say. You had everything handed to you.”

“So that’s what this is about? You resent my family because we never had to suffer like you? Yes, I’m lucky, but I don’t feel lucky right now. This is not about you, Ah Loy! The problem with you is that you blame everyone back home for your problems. Yes, you were stateless, but my mother had nothing to do with that.”

“Aya, Swee Hua, of course I know that. I tried to sponsor your mother to come to Canada. It’s not my fault her application wasn’t approved. She can come visit anytime.”

“Not everything is about status, Ah Loy. Not everything is about citizenship.”

“See, that’s the problem, Swee Hua. You can say that because you’ve never lived without it. Everything is about that. You have no idea what it feels like. I would rather die than lose my citizenship again. You cannot be a whole person when you’re stateless.”

Mother stormed upstairs with a dress she had discovered for herself in Po Po’s box. Father lit a cigarette and went for a walk. They left us in the room with the clutter. It was as if the contents of the box spilled out messily around us held more than the clothes Po Po had sent. Bea and I didn’t want to touch the remnants strewn about and abandoned Po Po’s gift.

Yellow leaves fell everywhere, reminding Mother of the snow to come, she said. The coming winter was impossible for her to avoid, and she searched for any excuse to leave the house and shelter in the warm company of others. A visit with Auntie Miriam at Woo’s Confectionery, a delivery pickup at the Oriental Palace with Auntie Joan, a stop at the post office, a book to return at the library, a trip to the grocery store, a snuggle with baby Billy at Auntie Carrie’s. I loved watching Mother come to life again when she was around my aunties. Her eyes opened wider, her smile reappeared, her cheeks coloured, and her hands flew while she talked.

Mother even tried to find community closer to home. Looking out the front window, coffee in hand, she saw two neighborhood women walk by, their skirts swaying and the heels of their leather boots hitting the pavement in synchronized rhythm. Arm in arm, the two women strolled forward, their heads turned towards each other, bodies intertwined like Siamese twins. Mother waved and called out, “Cecilia! Sally!” through the window. Their heads turned to look, and they waved brusquely, with wry smiles, but kept on marching. Mother clung to her coffee cup the way they hung onto each other. Taking slow sips, she let the steam reach her nose.

“Is that Mrs Donahue?” I asked, looking out the bay window with Mother, tiptoeing over her banana tree to get a better view.

“Yes.” The look on Mother’s face reminded me of when I tried to join May and Ann at the park and they rebuffed me.