It was a favorite line of his. More than him saying it, I was frustrated by the expectation that a nine-year-old should know how to thaw and cook red meat. I was forever failing at things I was never taught to do.

So I’ve venerated the labor of my father’s hands, decided that that’s the real.

I was wailing then, screaming at her to get off me. And she said it again, “Pain’s not the end. You have to fight.”

I think of time. Like Ngoại, this reef only has so much of it left.

There are more emails from a series of strangers. They have questions. They’re confused by my branch on their family tree.

Who were we as an adult couple, not just two college kids sleeping on each other’s hand-me-down mattresses?