Around us, it seemed all our former classmates were fleeing, many to Hong Kong, many to Taiwan, and the lucky ones, to America. My father pulled all the strings he could and had a lead on plane tickets to Taiwan. The only question was how many he would need.

Mr. Gao hounded your mother, trying to convince her to leave with the rest of us. He was too involved with the Nationalists, even more than my father, to have any hope of surviving a Communist takeover. He showed up every day, telling your mother how much he loved her, how much he wanted both of you by his side in Taiwan, how yes, it was an underdeveloped island, but it was beautiful, like her, and the fruit so sweet, and how he’d wipe the overflowing juice of a mango clean from her chin.

You and your mother would converse by yourselves in the courtyard. I tried not to imagine what those conversations were like, if you told her what I had done. We still had not spoken since our fight. At night, you would remain in the workshop for as long as possible, only returning to our room when you could go straight to bed. I imagined your mother asking you seriously if there was any part of you that wanted to go to Taiwan with us, if you would at least want to be with me. After all, weren’t we close, weren’t we like sisters, weren’t we inseparable? More than any city, hadn’t we buried our roots in each other? And you would reply—maybe that was the case once, but not anymore, I will not go with her, no, I will stay in Shanghai.

And so, not even a week after my father’s initial announcement, your mother and Mr. Gao separated. You and your mother would stay in Shanghai, while the rest of us went to Taiwan. Your mother tossed everything that had to do with Mr. Gao into the kiln and spread what she had left of your father’s belongings through the complex. The few letters he had sent, some of his books with his notes scrawled inside, his favorite Russian classics. Most importantly, a medal he had received from the Communist party. Anything that would help protect the two of you once the Communists took over.

“I hope in your lifetime, you will not be forced to let politics dictate your love,” she said as she tossed the last of Mr. Gao’s work orders into the kiln. There was no evidence of their relationship, not even anything a pencil could bring back.

The next day, my father came home with three airplane tickets. Only then did you speak to me again.

“We need to finish the story,” you said. It was the last thing I expected you to say. I had assumed our story abandoned.

“Okay,” I agreed, and followed you into our room.