“Yes, that’s true. But it doesn’t affect people like us, Dad.”

“Don’t think you’re immune to this, Lily. It could happen to people like us, too. Not every country gives citizenship to people born in their country. Didn’t you tell me about that young man who lost his Canadian citizenship?”

“Yes, Dad, but that was under very different circumstances.”

“Just do it. Go and get her birth certificate. For me,” Father begged. “There is nothing worse than being without citizenship. It’s like being homeless. It’s like you aren’t human. You can’t do anything. You are nothing to anyone. Please. I had to live like that for a good part of my life. I don’t ever want my grandchild to live even one day being stateless. I don’t ever want her to know what it’s like to be nobody, to suffer because she doesn’t have a piece of paper or identity.”

“Okay, Dad. Don’t worry. I’ll do it,” I promised.

“Good. Do it right away. Next time I see you, I want to hold that birth certificate in my hand. You’re lucky you have the power to do this for her.”

I nodded. “John and I will talk about it when he gets home.”

Father turned his attention back to the jiu gai. It had been a long time since I had seen him this worked up. I had viewed applying for my daughter’s birth certificate as an administrative chore, an item on my to-do list, like going to the grocery store or getting the oil changed in the car. For Father, it was a much more important task. My daughter did not yet exist in the eyes of the state. Her legal life was in limbo, and I controlled when it would begin.

“Dad, did you make this soup for Mom when she had me?” I asked.

“I don’t remember,” he said, but I knew he did. Father’s slow and careful movements as he prepared the ingredients revealed he needed no recipe. He not only enjoyed the ritual but had done it before. I didn’t understand why he wouldn’t recall this memory for me.

While Father stood in front of the pot, stirring with a large wooden spoon, I thought back to the days when I spied on him while he was trying to find Mother. I remembered late-night phone calls when he thought Bea and I were sleeping. Most nights his raised voice or broken sobs woke me up. I tiptoed to the doorway of my room and peered through the banister downstairs to watch Father pace, the coiled-up phone cord trapping him within a small patch of carpet. For several months after she disappeared, he searched for Mother every night he wasn’t working. He called everyone he knew in Canada and all over Asia. He pleaded for any information in English, Hakka, Hokkien, and even in his broken Cantonese and Mandarin. Sometimes I understood what he said, but other times I could only guess. I heard him say, “It’s not for me. For her girls, please help me find her.” Father, a man struggling to keep whatever pride he still had, embraced this demeaning task. He didn’t care about the shame that came with it. He just wanted to find her.