I wrote earlier that perhaps my mom feels the same way about refusing a narrative identity that I do. Her stories change shape, change time, they grow bigger and smaller, contradict themselves. From what I remember, she is understandably proud of her ability to survive anywhere, proud of not needing roots. She would tell me that, like her, my sister and I were meant to explore, to travel, to move. We got her bravery for that sort of thing, she would say, as though her departure to the United States was some kind of innate desire for exploration and adventure that she'd finally fulfilled.

The first time my mom left China, she was away for nearly thirty years before returning. She used to deny that this caused her any kind of grief. When I was a child, listening to her recount these stories from her seat at the kitchen table, I believed her. I wanted desperately to move away from home even as a young teen and couldn't begin to imagine how thirty years would feel. Now, I begin to question. I am thirty-one. Jenny was thirty-seven last year. Thirty years is a lifetime.

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