Monica has been flitting around the house. Half the time she is excited, using her new vacuum, biking to the store for supplies, watching videos on cleaning techniques. The rest of the time she is all nerves, fiddling with the art hangings on the wall, using her phone to determine if they are straight. You see, she finally worked up the courage to invite Louise to visit. It’s not even happening until the end of October, still a month away—and yet she’s frantic. Her restless energy has infected me and Torou. We’ve resumed our early morning walks, and Torou spends a lot of time at his computer, responding to messages from his former students. As for me, I write. Sometimes I get lost while I’m writing and end up wandering the house and find myself back in my rocking chair, knitting needles in hand.

There are some things I can’t remember at all. I don’t know if this is because of the disease or if I would have forgotten them anyway. For instance, I cannot, no matter how hard I try, recall the name of that boy you were seeing, or even much of what he looked like. You would say it’s because I didn’t like him. That’s not true though. I had nothing against him. I only hated what he did to us, even if it was my own fault.

Shortly after Japan’s surrender, you went on your date, and then another, and another. At first you told me everything. When the two of you went to that store that sold American ice cream sodas, and you thought it was too sweet and forced yourself to finish to not appear rude. Or when he took you to the silk shop and offered to have a dress made for you, but you were never into silk or fashion, and so you fumbled out an excuse and left empty-handed. Or how he learned from those not-so-successful outings and brought you to the river and you both sat in silence, watching the ocean liners and barges drift, admiring the American warships that now occupied the port.

As the year progressed, you would be gone for entire afternoons with him. It was startling, to be suddenly without you, when we had been trapped in the same house, the same room, for so long. You even missed the day Mr. Gao came with news of my father.

Mr. Gao was dressed in a crisp western suit, his hair combed neatly to the side. He looked impressive, even more so once your mother took his arm, wearing a beautiful floral qipao.

“I have good news,” Mr. Gao said to my mother. “Your husband is on his way home.”

“He is?” I blurted. We had not heard from my father in months.

“Yes. I suspect he will be here by the end of the week. His passage should be smooth, thanks to his devoted service.”