Papa had inadvertently turned my mother into a kept woman and I had no intentions of ever becoming like her. Financial dependency on a man was an area of particular dread for me. Omar was secretive about his money and there were times, admittedly, that I got suspicious of where it came from. Of how much of it he had. Of how it seemed limitless. Papa was a wealthy man, but when I went to university, I lived frugally. Papa only sent me what was needed, never more. So I lived like my friends, not like the wealthy Chinese or Hong Kong students, who had credit cards and who bought brand-new cars. I bought second-hand clothes, I rode a bicycle, I stayed in houses that were almost condemned.

Omar had expensive tastes—soft cheeses, Italian wines, tailored shirts and handmade English shoes—much like Papa—and I sometimes wondered if this was what drew me to him. I liked a man who dressed well and Omar’s vintage BMW, which once belonged to his father, was impeccably maintained, the sleek blue veneer always polished and the leather spotless and scented.

Papa had been kept abreast of my love life and he seemed pleased with what I’d told him about Omar.

Yes, Papa, Cambridge. Engineering. Articulate enough. We’re moving in together.

My father had become more of a recluse. He had turned down Anwar’s request to be lead counsel in his trial, and had retreated even more within the walls of his study and into the pages of his books. Whenever I went home I’d smell the sweet vanilla smoke from his pipe and see piles of plates stacked neatly by the wall. He lived on whole-wheat bread sandwiches with processed cheese, sliced tomatoes and liver pate, milky sweet Milo and 12-year old whisky. And papaya. The trees in the garden had fruited ample bosoms of the fleshy orange fruit and if the birds didn’t get to them they would all be eaten by my father.

The garden had become unruly with weeds. The rows of heliconia, crab’s claw and bird of paradise were thinning, and the slender, once glossy leaves dry from lack of water. But there were no flowers, none of the deep red, pinkish yellow and orange flowers that used to grow in abundance. The white and purple lilies in the dragon pots had all wilted. The orchids, all of his prized expensive orchids—which my mother loved, and cut and put into vases all over the house—were dead. Rows of handmade terracotta pots hung like a macabre installation from their wooden gallows. And the pots on the two-tier benches that our gardener Raja built over one weekend were choked with tall dried stalks. Even the buds had fallen off.