My father, Yongli, told me this story, but I think he left some things out.

I shoved the lacy bra I kept under my mattress deep into my backpack, sandwiched between my Sequential II textbook and my ancient shared copy of The Iliad, and decided it was time to white out “Brisma + Kelly 4ever” on my Jansport.

A deer was something you saw in your backyard through red binoculars, nibbling away the berries meant for your mother’s birthday.

Before the great split, they went out clubbing at glitzy boums (aka discothèques), sipping on delicate café au laits, the foam in their mugs forming hearts and arrows, portraits of le Pont Neuf, the Musée d’Orsay, and La Défense.

This is my first memory of my fear of heights.

This is my first memory full stop.

Neither of us were drunk. It was just dark outside, the streets narrow, and we were turning a bend, and then the quiet thump beneath us, like a balloon deflating.