I lowered the eyes. I willed the shoulders to slope. I whittled away the thickness of the arms and legs, thankful for the three layers of silk brocade that hid them. Foster Mother had lent me her formal kimono, the only one that she had not sold, for the introduction.

The face refused to change. It remained, as it is today, plain.

When Tsune and I entered the garden pavilion, I had swept its interior with the eyes. The tatami was new and green, its rice-straw-and-sunlight scent floating above the smell of pipe tobacco, which also inhabited the room. The kotatsu at the room’s center must have been burning charcoals all night, as the room felt as temperate as a spring day. Around the hem of the kotatsu’s thick quilt covering were untidy stacks of newspapers and books. I saw only one zabuton there. Where does a visitor sit or kneel in this dwelling? I wondered. A large hibachi sat nearby. Two heating sources for one modest room, I noted, and began out of habit to calculate the cost of the charcoals needed to keep them both warm.

Poverty reduced everything to a number. I have been reminded of this of late, Yakumo.

I have not had to deprive the children of heat or other comforts. That is not what I mean to suggest. Foster Mother and I have had to reduce the household expenses but in ways that the children have hardly noticed. Foster Mother sews all of their clothes now, except for the boys’ private school uniforms, which must be purchased as they are imported from England. Rest assured that their education will always be the first priority within this house of Koizumi. Foster Mother also prepares all their meals, making certain that once a month they enjoy a Sunday supper of beefsteaks, buttered English peas, and steamed carrots, sliced crosswise like coins. Kazuo, same as you, compliments foster Mother’s beefsteaks and says that they are even better than those at the restaurant Takoya. We do not dine there as often these days. Kazuo claims not to miss the Occidental dishes there in the least. Iwao and Kiyoshi chime in to say the same, though Iwao was seven and Kiyoshi was only four the last time we all dined there as a family. Suzuko was not even one then, yet she nods her head now in agreement.