“How could I miss Daddy when I’ve got you?” she says.

“Do you think he misses us?” I can smell the shampoo in her hair and the wine on her breath.

“I think he misses you,” Mom says.

“If he misses me so much, why did he go to London?”

“That’s got nothing to do with you.”

“That’s what I mean.”

“I mean, he wanted you to come, too—you know that, right? He wanted you to come along. But I wouldn’t let you. I said, you’re mine, all mine,” and she gives me a hug. We lie like this for a few minutes until she kisses me on the head and gets up. I feel embarrassed—it’s like I’m too big for her to share a bed with now. Like I was asking her to comfort me, so she did, but that’s not really what I was asking. I wanted to know what’s really going on, what she thinks about Dad and what Dad thinks about her, and what’s going to happen next year—the kind of stuff she was talking about with Granma.

One thing I like about Austin is Granma’s backyard. In New York, it took us about five minutes just to exit the building, but here I can walk right out of the kitchen and be outside.

There’s a big bamboo hedge between Granma’s garden and the next-door neighbors’. It’s kind of scratchy inside; last year’s leaves are still lying on the ground, and the bamboo stalks grow in all kinds of directions, so you have to fight your way through. Eventually I come up against an old fence, which is partly broken but must have been put there before the bamboo got so tall. I can see through the mesh into the neighbors’ backyard; a flat dodgeball has been left against their side of the fence, and when I look up, I see a trampoline—one of these big ones. It must have been there awhile, because the grass underneath it has turned to dirt.

I push my way out again and start to explore. There isn’t much to look at even though Granma’s yard is pretty big. Just an old sycamore tree at the back, with a bit of rope dangling off a branch, like maybe it used to be a swing. There’s a garden shed, too, with all kinds of stuff inside, not just bikes and gardening tools but things Granma doesn’t need anymore but doesn’t want to throw out. Like a floor lamp with a dusty paper shade and an old rusty saw hanging from a nail in the wall. I also find cardboard boxes full of newspapers, a leather armchair with foam coming out of the seat, and a bucket of tennis balls.

If I stand on the leather chair, I can reach the saw. It’s still pretty sharp, and I wander outside again and squeeze into the bamboo hedge. If I cut down a few stalks, I can make a den, but it’s hard work—they break into these tough little strands, and at the end you always have to kick against the stump to break it off, and then pull it, while a strip of the bamboo peels away. But I make a nice little clearing, just big enough for me and maybe one other person. When I’m sitting inside there, nobody can really see me.