Your mother fit into the decadence of the city in a way I found irresistible. Though she had arrived with only a few belongings, she quickly restocked her wardrobe, her French perfumes, her American cigarettes. She styled her own hair, showing me how she tucked and curled it, so it hugged her neckline perfectly. I helped her clasp her qipao, treating each small nub like a pearl. She found other women from her hometown, who spoke her dialect. It was not hard, in Shanghai, where people from every part of China were fleeing. They formed a mahjong group. She tried to convince Mother to join, but like you, Mother preferred to remain at home.

Despite her extravagant weekends, on the weekdays, your mother rose early and got right to work at the front of the pencil company. It was not until she came that I developed an interest in these operations. She stood at the storefront, directing customers to our samples, laughing with them even if she could not completely communicate with them. I used that as my excuse to sit beside her, to translate as needed, mostly to admire her charm.

Behind us was a wall of pencil hearts, dotted lines against brick. Each heart was made of a different ratio of graphite to clay, lending it a distinct softness and therefore darkness. The wall was arranged from lightest in the top right corner, to darkest in the bottom left, creating a gentle gradient. Your mother would ask the customers what they were looking for in a pencil. The Russian bodyguards wanted dark hearts, the rich students wanted thin tips and lots of them, the gang members wanted the most intricate casings, the Japanese businessmen wanted the logo removed, and your mother’s socialite friends wanted light, elegant ones to use for their invitations. Your mother would close her eyes and nod thoughtfully, hand on her chin, subtly showing off a jeweled ring, then turn and delicately select a few pencil hearts. I would slide each one into a temporary casing to mimic the wood that might eventually encase it. The customer would write something, usually their name. They would try a few, make observations, and almost always order a set of their favorite, smiling happily at your mother.

You, meanwhile, took to observing my mother in the room right behind us. With your mother at the front, my mother could finally focus on what she loved—the actual crafting of the pencils. You sat quietly as Mother mixed different graphite and clay mixtures, sent them into the kiln to harden. Only a few days after you came to live with us, she gave you the delicate task of carving the phoenix into the ends of each finished one.