“Swee Hua, what are you doing? Please stop,” Father said. “I’m not here to interrogate him. I’m entitled to my opinion. Of course, your relative is welcome in my home, Miriam, but that doesn’t mean I have to agree with how he’s trying to cut corners with our system.” Father got up from the kitchen table and went outside to smoke.

Alfred asked Mother if he had offended Father. She said that he only reminded Father of back home.

Alfred was planted at Woo’s Confectionery while he was in Sparwood. He worked behind the counter, and when it wasn’t busy, he drew. Sometimes when Mother was visiting Auntie Miriam, we sat and watched Alfred as he marked the paper with determined strokes of his pen in all directions, forming blocks of artwork on the page. Alfred’s English was rudimentary, so he used hand gestures and charades to communicate with us. He seemed like a big kid dressed up as a visiting uncle. Like my po po when she came to visit, he wasn’t afraid to talk to us even though we didn’t share the same language.

Alfred invited Bea and me to paint on our own pieces of paper. He took our hands to show us how to make a stroke. The motions were deliberate, with set rules. Up to down, left to right, lifting the pen at the right moments. We learned simple characters at first: kŏu and rén. Alfred also showed us that we could use our bodies to make characters. Standing tall with our legs wide and arms out to the side, we were dà, or big. We laughed in delight and urged Alfred to show us more.

Alfred knew how to make us look at something differently. He drew elaborate pictures and pointed out things in his intricate drawings that were subtle but hilarious. My favourite was when he transformed a drawing of a horse into the character for horse, or mǎ. Sometimes when Alfred retreated to his own work, I would see the spark leave his eyes and the smile disappear from his face. Suddenly, he would become older. Like Mother, he could wear many faces.

When Auntie Miriam and Mother descended from the upstairs apartment, Mother was both pleased and ashamed when she saw our work. We didn’t understand the conversation, but Mother appeared to be making excuses and apologies for why we didn’t understand Alfred’s language and why our calligraphy was so juvenile.

Mother had lengthy, hard-to-follow conversations with Alfred that she would translate only intermittently. Sometimes, they talked like old friends, laughing, patting each other’s knees, and finishing each other’s sentences. In more sombre moments, I saw them embrace, hold hands, or just sit silently, leaning into one another. Mother was so engrossed in Alfred’s tales of life in China that she sometimes forgot that Bea and I also wanted to hear his stories. I softly touched her hand to remind her not only to translate but also that we were there, watching.