While the Bostonian closed his eyes in silent farewell, Jean-Paul turned away, whispering, “Adieu, Maman.”

Tam curled up in the middle of Tante Annette’s bed and sobbed quietly so that the other children wouldn’t hear her. They would only tease her for crying. Even Papa had said she needed to be brave. France wasn’t their home, he had told her. But to Tam it was. She didn’t remember Saigon at all.

“Hi, Tam.”

“Go away,” Tam said, looking up at Rebecca Blackburn. She was only four and as big as Tam was at six. It wasn’t fair. Nothing was fair. “I don’t want you here.”

Rebecca climbed onto the bed. “Why not?”

“Because I hate your grandfather!”

“You shouldn’t hate my grandfather,” the younger girl said. “He likes worms.”

Tam sniffled and wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “He’s making Papa and me leave.”

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“But you live here.”

“Yes, but I’m not French.” She remembered her father’s words: “Our home is in Saigon.”

“I’ll come visit you,” Rebecca promised, curling up like Tam, her bare feet dirty from digging worms with her grandfather in the garden.

Tam shook her head, crying softly. “You can’t-it’s too far away.”

“My grandfather goes to Saigon all the time. My mom sends him pictures I color, and my dad says we can go see him sometime. We’ll come see you, too.”

“Okay,” Tam said, perking up. “Can you speak Vietnamese?”

Rebecca wasn’t sure what her friend meant, so Tam demonstrated, speaking a few sentences in her native tongue. Her father said they would have to stop speaking French when they were together and speak Vietnamese instead, so she could practice.