“Maa, pictures! What fun! Let’s see!” Mrs. Asaki dropped onto her knees beside the child, who obligingly held out the photographs so they could both share. In one photo, an earnest-looking young man stood in a formal suit; in another, he stood on a riverbank and grinned as he held up a fish on a line. Wordlessly, Tama handed over the accompanying résumé. Mrs. Asaki scrutinized it.

“He seems like a fine candidate,” she told her niece. “Well educated, hardworking, with a good future.”

“Yes,” said Tama brightly. “And in his free time, he enjoys fishing!” Her voice held such amused contempt that the little girl glanced up with interest.

Mrs. Asaki felt the sharp sting of insult. Her own daughter had married a man like this-Mr. Nishimura’s résumé was almost interchangeable with the one she held in her hands. But she could secretly relate to her niece; she would have felt the same way in her position. For Mrs. Asaki, too, knew what it was to possess beauty and charm, to have the arrogance that came from having options.

Introductory meetings had been arranged-the tense, stilted kind with both sets of parents present. A few weeks later, Mrs. Rexford dropped by with an update.

“She sabotaged it,” she said, eyes dancing. “What a show! She talked nonstop about herself, she kept interrupting…” She gave a ringing laugh of approval. “I told her, ‘Tama-chan, it’s not such a stretch from your usual behavior!’”

“Ara!” said Mrs. Asaki.

“Our father’s giving up out of sheer embarrassment.”

“That’s a shameful way to act,” said Mrs. Asaki. “Wasting everybody’s time.”

“Well, the whole business is downright medieval,” Mrs. Rexford retorted. “Marriage isn’t a job opening. It’s pathetic, having to get interviewed like some kind of applicant.”

Mrs. Asaki felt an echo of her long-ago dislike for Mrs. Kobayashi and her port-city airs.

Luckily, Masako hadn’t rebelled like her cousins. But then her situation was different. She had attended an all-girls’ college; it was what her father wanted. And college aside, she lacked that certain wayward sparkle with which her cousins had drawn young men their way.

No, Masako had never caused her parents the least bit of trouble, even as a child. For this Mrs. Asaki was grateful, even smug. But she had felt a dim sort of worry when she saw how the neighborhood children, especially Yoko, shielded her from the full brunt of their rough games.

As the years passed, Mrs. Asaki had taken a special interest in Sarah’s upbringing, for she, too, was an only child. On the surface her grand-niece seemed quiet and well mannered, just as Masako had been. But in Sarah’s eyes there was nothing shuttered; Mrs. Asaki suspected she could transition quickly into anger or grief. And why not? There would be no consequences if she did. The Rexfords were self-contained, living far away from family or anyone who cared. Mrs. Asaki yearned for their simple life.

Sometimes she dared to wonder if Masako’s docility came from being adopted. They had tried so hard to give her a carefree childhood. But if there had been a leak…if her daughter had carried that burden all those years and never come to her…But no, that possibility didn’t bear thinking about.

Across the lane at the Kobayashi house, Mrs. Nishimura was leaving for the day.

She stepped down from the tatami floor into the kitchen vestibule. Mrs. Kobayashi followed her down to see her out. Standing close together on the small square of cement, they slid their feet into comfortable household flats.

The older woman reached out and, in a spontaneous gesture of warmth, gripped her daughter’s hands in both of her own. “Thank you, Ma-chan,” she said. “Thank you for everything. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

Pleased and shy, Mrs. Nishimura squeezed silently back.

She had a sudden memory of standing in this very same spot with her sister Yoko. She was thirteen years old. There had been a birthday party for little Tama, and the children had feasted on fried chicken. This unusual dish, resurrected from Mrs. Kobayashi’s Kobe days, had excited the young guests. Frilled drumsticks clutched in bare hands, they laughed and joked with boisterous abandon.

Masako, crowded around the low table with the others, felt something within her loosen and spread out in this easy warmth. It had been several months since she last visited this house. Now that the children were older, they were busy with their own friends, their own activities at school. And since learning of her own adoption-she had known for almost a year-Masako had become self-conscious about visiting. Today, sandwiched in between Yoko and Teinosuke, she basked in this cozy intimacy that could have been hers. She pretended she was one of them-she pretended so hard she could almost feel herself changing into the bright, carefree sort of girl she might have been if she lived here with her real family.

She had gazed at Mrs. Kobayashi presiding at the table, smiling and ladling hot rice into the children’s bowls with soft, youthful hands that were so different from the veined, aging hands of her adopted mother. She felt a great yearning to touch one of those hands, to say the word mother. What the result of such an action would be, the girl couldn’t imagine. She thought it would be like puncturing the sac of an egg yolk, releasing something slow and rich and golden and momentous that would flow over her the same way it flowed over Yoko. But she didn’t yet feel entitled to this or resentful about its loss. She just felt a vague, primal shame about being given away.

After the neighborhood children had left through the formal guest entrance, Masako put on her shoes in the kitchen vestibule. Yoko did too; she had changed into her tennis clothes and was going out to practice. The two girls stood together on the small square of cement, leaning over to pull up the backs of their sneakers.

Masako wasn’t ready to return to her big, quiet house. There was a hollowness in her that threatened to widen out into terrible infinity. In a sort of controlled panic she turned to Yoko.

“I want to call her Mother,” she said. “Just once.” It was the first time she had mentioned it since their talk a year ago.

Her big sister looked at her with such sympathy and understanding that something in Masako loosened even further, and she felt herself on the verge of tears.

“Just wait a little longer, ne?” Yoko said. “For everyone’s sake. You have to be strong. Hold on, just a little bit longer.”

Now, decades later, Mrs. Nishimura gripped her mother’s hands and felt that old childhood desire. But it was no longer the terrifying thing it had once been. The years had rendered it down to something poignant and small, worn thin by day-today life.

For the first time, she decided to make an overture. And here was a rare chance, as perfect and fragile and unexpected as a glistening soap bubble-a chance that, deep down, she had always hoped would come. She felt her heart starting to pound. It would do no harm…just one small, intimate remark that would be answered in kind, creating a lovely moment that would resonate afterward. Their lives would not change. She knew this. They were grown women with a firm grip on reality and duty.

But the moment of opportunity had passed. Mrs. Kobayashi withdrew her hands and turned away to open the kitchen door. Mrs. Nishimura felt a sag of relief, followed by disappointment. Such a chance might never come again.

“You and I,” she said quickly to her mother’s back, “we’re the only ones left…” It was a reference to the original family unit consisting of Shohei, her mother, Yoko, and herself.

The kitchen door, rattling noisily in its groove, drowned out her soft voice. Mrs. Kobayashi caught something about being left behind, but she assumed Mrs. Nishimura meant the fish broth cooling on the stove. So she stepped outside onto the stone step and exclaimed, “Maa, how warm it’s gotten lately! If this keeps up, it’s going to be fine weather for Yo-chan’s burial.”