Then you and your mother arrived, in a flash of green, the first color I remember seeing and thinking beautiful. I thought you were the most glamorous people I had ever seen. We lived in the International Settlement in Shanghai, which, in 1937, was still the home of foreigners and expats and some of the wealthiest people in China. Glamour was not new to me, yet it was striking to see it up close on a woman who so resembled Mother. Your mother was younger than mine, always the elegant one. She wore a high-collared emerald qipao with gold threads woven throughout that formed floral patterns around the shoulders, bordering the slit at the bottom that hinted at her long legs. You wore a smaller version made from the same fabric. I stared at your dress longingly, at your hair that was styled after your mother’s, thick and upright and voluminous, while mine grew long and limp. The two of you looked like you had walked out of a mahjong game with elite friends. Not like you had fled a war zone into Shanghai’s winter.

You glared at me. I imagined you were disappointed with our living arrangements, having heard about the magnificence of the city, only to find yourself living behind a pencil factory. I wanted to disappear into Mother’s smock. She pushed me forward and made me introduce myself. You did not meet my eyes when you said your name.

We all sat around the kitchen table that night. You held your chopsticks elegantly, picking the grains of rice into your mouth.

“I want that one,” you said when I reached for a tofu puff glistening in a mixture of soy sauce and sugar. Ah-shin, our helper, had only prepared three, not expecting more than my grandmother, mother, and me. I never had to share before. It was the first time you looked into my eyes.

I brought the tofu puff into my bowl. Neither of us broke eye contact as I sank my teeth into it, letting the soy sauce dribble down my chin.

You slammed your chopsticks down on the table.

“I want to go home,” you told your mother. There was no mistaking the tears in your eyes.

“That’s not an option,” your mother said.

“Give the other half to Meng,” Mother ordered, pointing with her chopsticks at the half I had left in my bowl. I regretted not eating the whole thing at once.

You did not thank me before shoveling down the rest of your food.