If the child is the father of the man, couldn’t the reverse also be true? That the man, too, becomes a child again, in the presence of his own child.

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.