St. Adalbert’s looked like a church from an old lithograph, with its Gothic bell tower and clean white trim over sandy bricks. It had been founded when the neighborhood was Polish, and that was still part of its identity even in a diverse community—the notice board said the service after ours would be in Polish. My mind drifted as I stared at the stained-glass windows, much as I had as an antsy child. The sermon was about charity, and the word stuck in my brain. I’d been pulling at the threads of my sister’s life, but not that one, even though everywhere I went there were reminders of her philanthropy. Mrs. Chen frowned when I pulled out my phone and looked up the Diotima Civic Society. Dr. Adinah Gerstein’s contact information was on the site, and I tapped out a quick email, asking if we could talk in person, before mouthing a contrite “sorry” and tucking the phone away.

“Whose butt are you kicking today?” Mrs. Chen asked as we headed out after the service. She was almost my height, which made her unusually tall for a Chinese woman of her generation. She wore her hair in an angular bob, liked to wear black as much as I did, and never left the house without red lipstick.

“Why do you think I’m kicking anyone’s butt?”

“It’s what you do. Some people need kicking.”

“I’m going to see a woman who knew my sister,” I said. “Then I’m visiting my nephew. There’s a risk my brother-in-law will show up. In that case, you might have to bail me out of jail later.”

“Try not to let that happen.” She touched my cheek. “You need some rouge.”

I rolled my eyes, but inside, I was smiling. Mrs. Chen could drive Reagan crazy with her constant stream of unsolicited advice. Her daughter took it as criticism, but I looked at it differently. Mrs. Chen was one of the only people in the world who actually cared if my face was rosy. Or if I lived or died, for that matter. Nitpicking was her way of helping, and the truth was I needed that kind of help sometimes.

“Do you have any with you?” I asked.

“Of course.” She dug into her purse, pulled out a little pot of color with blooming flowers and Korean words on the lid, and dotted cream blush onto my cheekbones. “Better,” she added, rubbing it in. “Be careful when you’re out.”

“I try.”

“No, you don’t. You take too many risks.” She patted my arm. “But you are a good person.”

“I saw my father yesterday. He definitely doesn’t think I’m a good person.”

“Did he say that?”

“No. But we fought.”