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On my parents' memorial day, Zhou Cheng remembered at breakfast. "Do not forget the cemetery," he said. He even promised to cancel his afternoon meetings and come with me, as he had for the past two years. For a moment my chest ached. Then Su Yan set a bowl of porridge in front of me and said sweetly, "Sister Zhi, drink it while it is hot. Cold food hurts the stomach." I looked at the porridge and felt sick. At noon I sent a revised draft to my client and heard porcelain shatter in the living room. I ran out. The celadon jar my mother had left me lay in pieces on the floor. It was the only thing of hers I had kept. Su Yan stood beside it with her hand over her mouth. "It was an accident. I bumped the table." Zhou Cheng came out of his study, looked at the fragments, and said, "We will buy another one." I knelt down and picked up the pieces until my palms bled. "There is no other one," I said. He checked his watch. "We should leave for the cemetery. You can clean this later." I looked up at him. "You still want to go?" "Of course. I promised." He said it as if the promise were a favor. I put the broken pieces into a box, carried it to my room, and closed the door. That afternoon I called the agent back and told her to bring the paperwork.0