MARCH

Dear Son,

How have you been? I’m glad that everything has worked out for both of us. Things are going well here, and with the extra room you now have, you and Daughter-in-law can start thinking about having a baby. It’s a shame your father isn’t here to see you move into this phase of life.

Granny Ng put down the pen. She struggled to conjure up her late husband’s face, absentmindedly stroking the thin silver band on her finger. It had lost its shine over the years and was now a foggy grey, bearing a closer resemblance to tin than silver. She had never thought of selling it, not even at her most desperate; it had just never occurred to her, just as it wouldn’t have occurred to her to cut off her finger or ear and imagine it would be of any value to anybody else.

She couldn’t see her husband’s face, but she could feel the flat, smooth plane of the back of his head against her palm. She had held it every day towards the end, helping him keep his head up as she spooned warm broth into his mouth. As a child he had been affectionately nicknamed “Flatheaded Boy” by everyone in the village. She had never given much thought to this feature of his, and was surprised to think of it now. Over the years, her memories of him had appeared in increasingly broad strokes: his narrow, thoughtful face; his stubbornness; his pale, weakening body that smelled of old bread; her quiet despair at being left alone just a year after her son was born. She stroked the creases of her palm, and for a moment wondered if she had remembered correctly—if her memory of the flat back of her husband’s head had not in fact been that of her infant son’s.

Granny Ng heard the young man pacing about the room. She curled up tighter. She was waiting for him to curse or slam a door or break a glass. Although she knew it wasn’t like him to lose his temper, she waited for the sound of something nevertheless. But all she heard was the clink and groan of the ironing board being folded up, the static hiss of a machine coming to life. Click. Click.

Another evening alone at his computer. The quiet was occasionally interrupted by a voice or an advertising jingle—an announcement that he’d won a million dollars or an invitation to join a fun party by dialing this number. Then sound effects—a rippling of cards, plastic chips clinking against each other, the dealer’s catchphrase, “The house always wins—but maybe not tonight!”