Mother packed my pencil with a few packets of rice and shipped it back to Shanghai. We never knew if you received it.

“Just a few more months,” my father said as he left for work, a new position given to him by the Nationalist government. It was again within the intelligence division. They were scrambling to find a weak point in the Communist regime as well as a way to keep the locals under control. “It might be good for you to meet some people. Make friends. You should really be looking for a husband.”

“Why would I look for a husband here if we are leaving in a few months?” I glared at him the way you used to. He gave me only a passing glance before leaving us alone in the house again.

Those days blurred together, the only marker of time my father leaving and returning. Mother poured her energy into learning how to cook. I assisted halfheartedly. I could not help it. I would wake up wondering what you and your mother were doing in Shanghai, if you were safe. I spent every day in that little Japanese house, knowing each one would be the same, gray and dull, without my home, without you. I could not muster the energy to meet new people, convinced the locals hated us, and the others from China only saw us as competitors.

“Good news,” my father said one day, returning from work.

“We are going back?” I asked, sitting up from where I had been lying down on the tatami. Mother straightened too, walking over from the kitchen.

“No.” I deflated and almost did not hear what he said next. “The boss wants to open a pencil company here.”

“In Taiwan?” Mother asked, eyes wide.

“Yes. Mr. Gao has been lobbying for it, even from the south. The government will pay for all expenses. They’ve found a few buildings they want me to choose from, but I said I needed to consult you two first.” He stood behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders, and kissed my head. “Wouldn’t you like that?” he asked. “To go back to making pencils?”

I wanted to yell at him. I wanted to tell him that he was missing the point, that it was not the pencils we missed. This island would never have the life of Shanghai. It would never have you, and no number of pencils would change that. But I was not a child anymore. I was twenty years old, and I knew he was trying his best, that he needed me to try as well, and the only thing I was good at was making pencils.

“That sounds great,” I managed.