We both turned to the recliner in the corner and saw John, grog-gily holding the baby. She was sleeping, undisturbed by her aunt’s hurricane of an arrival. Bea took her niece in her arms and cooed at her.

“Have you named her?” Bea asked.

“No, we’ve been struggling with that,” I confessed.

“Good! I have a few thoughts. And it would be good to keep the big reveal for the red egg and ginger party.”

I laughed quietly, leaning back against my pillow. “Slow down, Auntie Bea. Who said anything about a red egg and ginger party?”

“Excuse me?” Bea was surprised. “We didn’t have a baby shower, and I totally understood that. It’s bad luck to celebrate before the baby arrives. But I think it would be good for this family to celebrate something for once now that she’s here. And I want to show off my new niece.”

“Listen, Bea. I don’t think my friends would get it, you know? They’ve all pitched in to buy us a new stroller. And John’s work colleagues sent over all of these great baby books. My colleagues also got us a gift certificate for this place that delivers great meals. We didn’t need a shower, and we don’t need a party. Everyone has been so generous already.”

“What’s there to get, Lily? People eat, they bring gifts or red packets, and we all hold the baby.”

“I just would rather that we didn’t.”

“Why? You know that Auntie Miriam, Auntie Choo Neo, and all the other aunties have been waiting for this.”

“Well, I’m not about to do something to please other people. It’s not for me. It’s so provincial and tacky, asking people to bring money in red envelopes.”

“It’s not tacky. It’s tradition. It’s part of our culture.”

“Not mine. We’re Canadian, Bea.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bea handed the baby to me. “I’ll leave you to it. I’m calling Dad.” She parted the curtains and walked out.

Even though Bea had left, I felt like there was still a red egg in the room among the bouquets and cards. I didn’t want it there, taunting me. I didn’t want my daughter to be part of that peasant tradition.

鬲Cauldron

WHEN I HAD ARRIVED AT THE HOSPITAL, the weather was still warm. Leaving, I felt the north wind nip at my bare toes in my flip-flops. John had brought my leg warmers and a coat, and the hospital had given our daughter a knitted hat for the walk to the car. I looked up and the full green canopy of summer had given way to crispy yellow, red, brown, and orange leaves. It was as if I had travelled through time. The fall season in the Sparwood mountains was muted, softer, and predominantly yellow. Even after the many years I had spent in Ontario, planting myself here after university, I was entranced by the way the trees looked. Enflamed.

At home, there were flowers, cards, and a dry warmth from the recently turned-on furnace. News of the birth had spread, but the house was quiet. Bea didn’t know we had been discharged, because John wanted our homecoming to be our private family event. As a historian in Asian studies, she had decided to use her time here in Ottawa to visit the national archives to conduct some research and find a quiet place to polish a paper she was writing.