Auntie hugged me and gave me a chocolate bar. “Oh, Lily. No, I don’t. I wish I did.” She sighed. “Your mother didn’t even say goodbye to me.” Then it was her turn to cry a little. I realized that Mother had abandoned Auntie Miriam, too.

For a time, I believed Mother had left us thinking Auntie Miriam would be a better mother for Bea and me. And sometimes I wished I was Auntie Miriam’s daughter. Mother was foreign not only to my home but also to me. Her accent, her Hokkien words, her weird penchant to rip off her socks as soon as she came into the house, and her lament for the lack of fresh meat at the grocery store. She asked if I was embarrassed by her. I said no, but if I am honest, I was annoyed when she didn’t change or notice her mistakes. I saw the tilted heads when she spoke, the raised eyebrows when she asked for the tripe from the butcher. I wished she blended in more, like Auntie Miriam, confining her Chineseness within the borders of her mind. Maybe Mother sensed this. Auntie Miriam’s grandfather had risked life and limb laying down track all across British Columbia for the Pacific Railway, and the veneer of Canadian esteem stuck to Auntie Miriam.

In the months after Mother’s departure, I increasingly went to Auntie Miriam when I needed a hug or had a new question. What was the last thing Mother had said to her? Had she received a letter or a phone call from her?

Then, one dark and rainy day, I decided that Auntie Miriam knew all along where Mother had gone, that she was putting on a convincing act. I went to Auntie Miriam’s store, doubts swirling in my head, tears dripping from my eyes.

I pointed at Auntie Miriam and moved closer to her. “You’re a liar. Just tell me. Tell me where she is. Tell me where you’re hiding her. I know you helped Alfred escape. You must have helped Mom, too!”

Anyone else would have kicked me out. I was on the precipice of adolescence, shouting rudely. Instead, Auntie Miriam mustered all her compassion for me. She brought me into her arms, even when I pushed her away, patiently answering all my questions, even though she had already done so, many times before.

Auntie Miriam dried my tears and said, “Lily, your mother may never come back.” Auntie always listened to me, and she never talked down to me. “I would hate for you to waste your life waiting for her. This will be a hard time for you. This may be the hardest thing you will have to endure. You will have to be more independent and take care of your sister. I’m so sorry you are going through this. I wish you didn’t have to. You have every right to be angry. To be honest, I am angry at Swee Hua, too. I don’t understand why. I just don’t.”