Tita Jackie laughed. As we watched the program together, she explained that Ricky behaved better than his own father because Edward had been spoiled all his life and acted like a child.

“You must learn good habits now so that you grow up responsible and mature,” she said.

I completed her sentence in my head: not like your papa. The parallels were obvious, and I sensed for the first time how my aunt resented the liberties my father took because my grandmother indulged him, while everyone expected Tita Jackie to fulfill a dutiful daughter’s role. I also wondered, when I learned that Ricky’s mom did not tell Edward he had a son, whether Papa might not be my real father, if that was the reason I was so white and Papa didn’t care much about me. Maybe Mama had an affair with an American, and I would someday find him in a giant house in the United States, where I could have as many books and games as I wanted. Another part of me knew this couldn’t be true, but I enjoyed the fantasy anyway.

That show also gave me a template of what life was like in America. Instead of our wooden chairs and benches, families there sat on padded sofas. When I pointed to what looked like a giant hole in the wall, Tita Jackie explained to me that this was a fireplace, which Americans needed because it got cold there when it snowed, a concept I still couldn’t quite grasp, something like ice that fell from the sky, except soft.

Though as the show went on, my focus became solely on Ricky and how I could imagine him as an older, American version of myself. I got really close to the TV and scrutinized the boy’s mannerisms, any hints that would give me a better sense of what I could be like once I moved to the U.S. Silver Spoons came on Saturday evenings right before bedtime, and my family prepared our common room as soon as the show was over, laid out our sleeping mat and pillows, put up the mosquito net. I went to bed with dreams of being Ricky, living a blessed boy’s life in America.