I could hear the doorbell ring through the quiet house. A small sun-faded red Chinese knot hung from the mailbox, a reminder to celebrate Chinese New Year and preserve the ties that bind us. Father and Auntie must have had it for years.

Father opened the door, and I was relieved he acted like nothing had happened between us. While I unzipped my coat, he took the car seat, brought it in the centre of the living room, and gently untucked the blanket around the baby. Father unbuckled Leo, untangling her arms from the shoulder straps, and expertly put his hand behind her head before lifting her. He placed her on the couch and unzipped her outerwear, releasing her flailing arms and legs. He smiled, smelled the top of her head, and whispered to her. Seeing them together, I smiled so widely. For the first time in weeks, I felt pure joy. I told Father her name was Leo and handed him her birth certificate. He beamed, clutching both firmly. I let them have their moment together and went to put my coat in the closet and peer into the kitchen to see if Auntie Choo Neo was around.

When I came back, Leo was asleep. I watched Father walk around the living room with the tiny bundle in his arms and remembered when my sister and I would snuggle under his arms while watching television. Before Mother left, he wasn’t very affectionate, but her absence forced him to comfort us. When he sat on the couch, we would attach ourselves to his sides. He never pushed us away, and as we grew older, as he learned to enjoy the closeness, we were the ones who pulled away. He must have missed that, but now he had Leo.

“Where’s Auntie?” I asked.

“Out with her knitting group,” Father said. “Leo has your hair. You had so much when you were born.”

“Yeah, I don’t think John ever had hair like that.” We both laughed.

“We used to tie it up at the top.”

“I know. I’ve seen the pictures.”

Father pulled out his cellphone and asked me to take some pictures of him and Leo together. He held Leo gently and smiled, and then moved around the house for more photos in the same pose: standing with the sleeping baby cradled in one hand, her birth certificate in the other. I laughed; he had done the same, decades before, with me.

Father sat down in his armchair, perching his arms on the armrest to create a cradle for Leo. “I used to come home from the night shift early in the morning, and you would be standing in your crib waiting for me. I didn’t want to wake your mother, so I would bring you to sit with me while I had my coffee and some breakfast. We would read the newspaper together.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“You were small. Back then, you spent more time with your mother, so maybe you remember her more.”