Holding hands, mother and daughter hurried to the room in the main hall where the gatekeeper sent guests to wait. When her mother stepped over the threshold, the man standing by the elm wood chair bowed. Lian didn’t recognize him, but in his old-fashioned scholar’s gown of dark-blue silk he seemed quite elderly to her. He glanced down at her, and then looked at her mother.

“Lian, go back and finish your cake,” her mother said. She stood very still, not taking her eyes off the man. She didn’t ask him to sit.

Obediently, Lian left the room. But once around the corner, she crept to the window and peered in. She could see their faces in profile, her mother’s and the man’s, both still standing. The man’s words were indistinct, his voice quiet but urgent. What he was saying made her mother stiffen, clasp her hand tightly on the chair back, holding on as if for support. The man strode across the room and took her mother’s hand in his. He patted it awkwardly, hesitantly. Only after he left did her mother sink down to the chair, head in her hands, shoulders shaking.

Then her mother stood up and wiped the tears from her eyes. Lian abandoned the window and ran as fast as she could to the dining room. She had just finished the last mouthful of cake when her mother came in and sat beside her, apparently quite calm. Then she told Lian that her father had died.

The next day four strangers crowded into the same room. The men rested uneasily on the elm wood chairs, their backs straight and rigid as tombstones. They spoke, softly at first, then sternly. Her mother shook her head repeatedly, her gaze never flinching, her chin lifted slightly. Defiant.

A few days later, less than a handful of people stood with Lian and her mother at her father’s funeral. It was early in the morning, the ground still hard, grass and leaves still crusted with frost. After brief murmured condolences, everyone hurried away, leaving Lian and her mother to watch the gravediggers pile soil over her father’s cremated remains.

A young man climbed the path toward them, carrying a small wreath of white chrysanthemums. He wore Western garb, a heavy wool greatcoat unbuttoned over a dark suit. His hair, when he took his hat off, was cut very short, military style. Her mother lifted her chin and stared directly at the stranger.

“Your mistake, my husband’s life,” her mother said. Then she spat on the ground and took Lian’s hand. They walked away from the grave, the stranger still standing there with his wreath.

That night, Lian woke to the sound of sobs and screams. Her amah tried to get her back to bed. “Don’t go, Little Miss,” she begged. “Leave her be.”