“Maybe they don’t want to remember,” grandmother suggested.

Louise swallowed. “It’s one of the greatest migrations in human history. When so many people fled Shanghai. With all the . . . immigration issues we’re facing today, I think we would be able to learn . . . from that time period—”

She was speaking in Chinese, and for the first time, I heard the faults in it, the imperfections from not having grown up entirely in the language. It was still better than mine. She faltered, though, and made what should have been an impassioned argument seem clumsy.

“I’m sorry. I would rather not share.” Grandmother finished her soup and handed her bowl to me.

“But you said you would be okay with it earlier,” I reminded her.

“Did I?”

So she did not remember our conversation or she had changed her mind. I took the bowl and stacked it on top of my own empty bowl. I bit my lip.

“Maybe the retelling would be good for your memory,” I ventured.

“There is nothing that can help my memory now.” She said it in a way that made clear the argument was over.

But Louise did not have that same experience reading her.

“Meng shared with me. She said she thought you would too.”

Grandmother frowned.

“If Meng told you her story, then you know mine as well.”

“Everyone has their own story—”

Grandfather cut in.

“Monica, why don’t you take Louise to find some Boston souvenirs to bring home to her parents before her train?” He took the bowls to the sink. “Maybe some, ah, what do you call them, with the cream?”

“Cannoli,” I said automatically.

Grandmother took that moment to leave the kitchen. Grandfather stacked the other dishes in the sink and followed her out.

“Oh fuck,” Louise breathed once they were out of earshot. “I really messed that up.”

“It’s alright,” I said. “She’ll forget about it soon enough.” I had meant it as an offhanded comment, not anything specific to her disease, and only realized the weight of my words after I spoke.

Louise groaned, covering her face. I did not know how to reassure her, so I grabbed the dishrag from the sink and wiped all the stray sesame seeds from the table.

“Oh fuck,” she said, and looked away, pushing out her chair. She wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve.

“Don’t worry about it,” I attempted, limp dishrag in hand. “Really. They like you.”

“Surely not anymore.”

“Yes, they do. You gave them so many good memories in the last few days. I don’t think I ever saw them as excited as they were at your game, not for a long time. And then you played mahjong with them. That’s their favorite.”

“That was before I messed everything up. There’s no reason they would still like me now.”

“Yes, there is. They still like you because I like you.”