Mr. Gao visited me twice while I was in California. When he first arrived and entered my attic, he insisted at once he must buy me a proper bed. It was then that I realized he had not bothered booking a hotel and assumed he would sleep with me.

I suppose I cannot lie to you any longer. I slept with him even back in Taiwan, though I told you earlier I had not. Why hide it? Or rather, why reveal the truth now? I am ashamed of it, so ashamed, most of all to tell you, when you hated him. I look back on those moments and wonder how I could have done it, when he was so much older and had been with your mother first.

I believe your girl has something to do with my sudden decision to share this truth. My story doesn’t quite make sense otherwise—I would have happily married any of those men if it meant I might be able to bring you and Mother to America. But Mr. Gao would never have let me.

As my words skirted around his presence, I saw your girl’s face. That wide mouth, bottom lip trembling, pleading for me to tell her my story. I didn’t tell her anything. But I owe you, and I want you to understand me. So from here on out, I promise you the whole truth, and you can think of me however you like.

He never treated me the way he did your mother. Your mother he loved. I was a poor substitute, which was fine by me. Preferable, even. We were both using each other. There were times when he would reminisce about Shanghai and we would laugh, a small, sad laugh, for the home we once shared. Other times he was cruel, demanding to know why I did not have more pencils Reforged for him, calling me as lazy as your mother.

“I hope the Communists show her their true nature,” he would say.

But as easily as he dismissed her, it was clear he missed her.

“I always wanted a child,” he said once. “Did you know your aunt carried my child? No need for that alarmed look. You don’t have another cousin running around. She aborted it before I ever knew.”

I could not imagine how your mother had managed to hide something like that from us, where she could have even gone for an abortion in our occupied city, if my mother had known.

“I always hated her for that,” he said, his wistful tone quickly disappearing.