Mutely

George says only boys wearing blue can play with him. He looks at the navy stripe on your grey shorts and says, Only light blue counts. Hotness stings your eyes. You’ll tell your mother later; Ahma said she’s leaving the hospital today. But Daddy shows up after everyone else has gone, prickles all over his chin, wearing the t-shirt he sleeps in. Mama’s resting, he says. Don’t whine, okay? Now’s not the time. Once home, you shout Mama, but Ahma patters out of the kitchen while Daddy disappears upstairs. Over dinner, Ahma strokes your hair when you tell her about George. You can play with other friends, she says. You push your dinner away, stick out your lower lip. You want to play only with George, as your mother would’ve known. Before the thing in the hospital, she’d listened all the other times George said you weren’t wearing the right colour, and wrapped you in her cocoon, smelling really nice, like flowers.   

Carefully

For Show and Tell, you bring the picture that you, Daddy, Ahma and your mother took in front of the big tower called Taipei 101 to show where you went on holiday. Mrs Fox says how wonderful, and asks whether you have a brother or sister. You look at your mother touching her round belly. I don’t know, you reply. Later, you watch Mrs Fox talk to Daddy. Watch him lower his head, cover his face. Watch her pat his back. At home, you yawp when you see your mother in the kitchen, her hands around a mug. She smiles, but it looks different from before the thing that happened in the hospital. You chatter about your new friends, new teacher, how she asked about your photo, the one in front of – Hey, let’s tell Mama about the playground, Daddy says. But why did my sis – and your mother’s chair makes a loud noise against the floor. Mama, you say, but she doesn’t look back.

Forcefully

It’s the morning of your fifth birthday. You run into your parents’ room, shouting, Yay, we’re taking the train to see the T-Rex in London! Your mother’s curled up on one side, duvet pulled tight around her. Daddy’s in front of the bed, hands on his waist, staring at your mother, unsmiling. Mama’s not coming, he says. You freeze. Something rises up in you, making your heart gallop. You ball your fists, stamp your foot. No! It’s my birthday! I want Mama to come! You dash to her, yank off the duvet. This is so unfair! It’s my birthday! I want you to come! It’s been a gazillion years since the thing in the hospital. I want you to come! and you throw yourself at her, clinging to her as if she’d evaporate. I want you! and her cheek and ear are damp. I want you! and you feel her trembling, shuddering. I want you! and Mama tightens her arms around you, melding into your cocoon.