Every summer Ah-hui returns to the village where her family has lived for two hundred years. On the hill behind the temple stand the graves of her 11, and her grandmother still cleans them by hand. Records kept in the temple office reach back further than any book at school. From them Ah-hui learned that one great-aunt went to work as a 12 in a rich household at twelve, and that another was left an 13 at the age of six. Half the families in the village turn out to be 14 in some way. Ah-hui writes every story down, because she cannot 15 how soon the old voices will fall silent.
When my parents told us about the 16, my brother cried and I said nothing at all. Two homes seemed worse than one unhappy house. Three years later I am no longer sure that is true. Dad learned to cook, and Mum, who had been a full-time 17 for twelve years, went back to college. Last spring she announced her 18, and in August my half-sister was born. Holding that tiny 19 for the first time, I understood that a family is not one fixed shape. It changes, and the love inside it can stay 20 even when the address does not.