There were still men who stuck around and talked to me. Not because I was particularly charming or pretty. There were so few women from our home there, even fewer on their own, not accompanied by a husband or a brother. It would have made sense for me to find one with citizenship and marry him, to secure my place in the United States, then bring you and Mother over. Except I shrank from their touches and brushed off their attempts to spend time with me. I was there to betray them, not to love them.

Phoenix 708 balanced a fine line between drawing in enough customers and being an entirely illegal operation. I did not know how to become a certified restaurant, did not even know that was a requirement. When one of the neighbors came by, eyes narrowing at the small tables and men seated together eating vegetables, noodles, and pie, I assured her they were my family.

“I have a lot of cousins here.” I smiled. I did my best to conjure some charm. “My family is very wealthy back home. Sent all of us here. The boys to study, and me to cook for them.” And then I laughed, imitating your mother, leaning in, as if sharing a secret. “I really only know how to make a few dishes, but they’re so desperate for any kind of food from home.”

She squinted at the lot of them.

“Ah, yes,” she said slowly. “I see the resemblance.”

“Would you like some pie?” I offered.

She took a slice and left, mollified. I assure you my cooking was not good. Still, more people came, desperate for a passable meal and a place to talk. I swapped the small tables for two larger circular ones so everyone sat together. I told Mr. Gao it would encourage chatter, and he gladly paid for it, calling me very smart, just like my father.

“What did you do before you came here?” the men would ask.

“I made pencils.”

“Pencils?” The surprise was always there. Most of them found it odd. The ones from Shanghai, though, and even those from Taipei, suddenly looked at me differently.

“The Phoenix Pencil Company was run by my mother,” I would say to anyone who asked if the pencils of their youth were still available.

“Yes, I brought a few with me.” I’d pretend there were not many, that it was a great kindness for me to let them buy from my small stash. In reality, Mr. Gao sent me Mother’s latest offerings every month.

They were ready to pay twice the amount we used to charge for them. Your mother no doubt would have challenged me to see how much I could get them to pay. But I never charged them extra. The real price was their words, and those I would collect later.