Weng pictured Cherry’s husband as a tall and quiet man,
holding her hand the way they would ballroom on television
with graceful bodies, proud faces.

“His fingers are strong and fine,” Weng told himself, “not
damaged like mine by decades of vegetable handling . . . and
no scars on his cheeks, either . . . and of course he speaks well,
understands Western manners, doesn’t spit . . . they probably
met at work, spent time talking . . . then many dinners . . . love
declared silently by eyes over crispy duck.

Then wedding day: nice hall (free parking) . . . the unmarried
stare in relief or regret, petals on the ground . . . a hotel . . . so
charming. Cherry loves the little soaps in the bathroom . . .
rolls them in her hand . . . her parents will learn to love her new
husband as the son they never had. Big honeymoon in Hong
Kong . . . no, Thailand (paid for by mother’s savings), . . . Take
photographs, the mother tells Cherry. Here’s an extra memory
card. Her daughter is happy and looked after. Soon Cherry and
her husband have an announcement: