She found the archway surrounded by vermilion bougainvillea. So many years ago, nearly a decade, Glen had taken her here, a walk on his favorite street he had claimed—perhaps he had wanted to confess something then. That was why this place had looked so familiar to her. They had walked over the bougainvillea leaves, holding hands as one. As time passed and they shifted apart, she’d forgotten it. Maybe she hadn’t been fair to Glen either, hadn’t listened to him or paid attention to his feelings. Maybe if she had, she would’ve known the truth all along; she wouldn’t have been a disappointment too. But now, bolstered by her newfound clarity, she rushed over, and sure enough, the tip of the fire tower was visible diagonally behind it. Such attractive surroundings didn’t match the nefarious reasons she’d invited herself here. She rang the bell and heard a woman’s footsteps crossing a little courtyard, coming to the outer door. The peephole was about the size of a fist, revealing a youthful face. “Who are you?” asked the woman, but then recognition flickered in her familiar eyes.

Hongmei beamed. She couldn’t smile so warmly if she were sober.

“I was looking for you.” She said the woman’s name.

Two more people appeared in the courtyard, one male and one female, about the woman’s age.

Hongmei was invited in. They’d been having dinner—half a pizza was still piping hot in its take-out box, and three beer bottles stood empty. She quickly said, “I’m so sorry to disturb your meal.”

“Would you like to join us?” said the woman, polite but distant, just like her father.

Hongmei recognized at once the shawl on the living room sofa. She walked over, one step, two steps, three steps, heel, toe, heel . . . bent down, reached out. The embroidery on the shawl, which she’d bought so many years ago, just before leaving the little village, on a day that happened to have a temple festival. She’d stitched this piece of embroidery onto an ordinary wool shawl and had made a unique garment. But how had it ended up here? By the time she turned around, to face this long-lost daughter, she’d decided what to say.

“I was supposed to meet your father elsewhere, but I came here.”

The woman stared at her. Finally, she opened her mouth.

“I know who you are. He talks about you a lot.”

Hongmei’s hands were still running over the shawl as she looked at the girl’s eyes. Weren’t they the same familiar eyes that had shone on her every day from the most intimate perspectives? How could have she missed it? How could she have missed the same grayish blue, the same deep folds, the same slight weariness from having seen too much?

She found herself saying, “I didn’t expect you to be all grown up.”