I realized that she was scared of being buried apart from my father.

“There’s Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir’s grave,” she added, her tone that of someone who has just discovered something interesting. I looked at the headstone she was pointing to: dark letters carved onto a white surface. You couldn’t say they’d been an orthodox couple. For years they lived in a love triangle and had bloody fights. But still, look at them. There they are, buried like any other husband and wife.

That afternoon, after I’d already promised to destroy the snake, I swore to her that come what may, I’d bury her in the same place as my father.

“It’s fair,” I concluded. “All those years aren’t invalidated just because of some teenage girl.”

A few feet away I found two gray headstones engraved with gold lettering in Chinese and French. A very large family lay in each.

“Maybe I’ll also fit near you,” I said to her. “Why bury only two when so many bones fit inside a single grave?”

My mother never again mentioned what we’d talked about that afternoon. When we got home she made dinner like she did every night and went back to being her old self, or at least she seemed to. I on the other hand carried on my shoulders the weight of my two promises, especially the more immediate one.