I took Kazuo aside that evening and asked him to write to Mama every day. “Do not let Papa see,” I began. “Let it be a surprise when I show him at the end of the month how diligent you have been at practicing your Japanese characters, Kazuo. Tell Mama, if Papa is tired or crossed. Tell Mama, if he does not finish his meals. Tell Mama, if he is restless at night or sleeps late into the morning,” I instructed. Kazuo nodded his head, his serious face intent on fulfilling what was being asked of him. I looked at him and wished that he were older. Children should not have to care for their parents, I knew.

These worries soon subsided, as every day I received not one but two letters, one from Kazuo and the other from you.

You wrote at sunrise, “I miss you. I wish I could see your face now. Do I still have to wait?”

Nishida-san could not have written a finer letter, Husband.

You had been eager for Yaizu, but you were just as eager to return to Tokyo. You had asked me to order a new haori and hakama for you to wear at your first lecture. The older Waseda professors did not wear Western suits, and this, you felt, gave you permission to discard yours as well. “I am old enough now,” you claimed. You meant that you are Japanese enough now, Yakumo.

You would return from that campus with your hands on your chest, tugging at the cloth of your haori. I wanted to send the household’s jinrikisha man to Dr. Kizawa’s house, but you refused. You insisted that a pour of whiskey would make the pain go away. It did, until a week later when it returned with a force that made you nod your head in agreement when I again insisted on summoning the family doctor to this Ōkubo house.