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.