"What'd she say?"
Mrs. Lau repeated it in English.
"She looks smart. Maybe smarter than her father."
He laughed so loudly that several passengers turned.
I hid my face.
Mrs. Lau smiled.
Then reached into one of her bags and handed me a small paper package.
Inside was a pineapple bun.
It was sweet, warm, and covered with a crust that crumbled against my fingers.
I had never tasted anything like it.
My eyes widened.
Mrs. Lau laughed.
"Good?"
I nodded enthusiastically.
She smiled.
Then said, "菠蘿包."
I stared.
She repeated it.
Slowly.
"Bo lo bao."
I tried.
My pronunciation was terrible.
Mrs. Lau laughed gently.
Then tried again.
By the time we reached her stop, I could say the words well enough that she clapped.
That was my first Cantonese lesson.
I didn't know it would eventually save a one-hundred-and-sixty-million-dollar transaction.
I only knew I'd learned the name of something delicious.
Mrs. Lau lived above the bakery beneath our apartment.
Her first name was Mei.
She had immigrated from Hong Kong decades earlier and built the bakery with her late husband.
By the time I met her, she was in her sixties and had become the unofficial grandmother of half the children on our block.
She spoke Cantonese with extraordinary speed.
Her English was strong enough to run a business, negotiate with suppliers, and argue with landlords, though she sometimes preferred Cantonese when expressing complicated emotions.
She loved food.
Loved stories.
And loved correcting anyone who used language carelessly.
When I was seven, my father died unexpectedly from a heart attack.
The loss shattered our family.
One evening he was sitting at the kitchen table helping me with multiplication.
The next morning, he was gone.
I remember adults speaking softly.
My mother's eyes.
The funeral.
The smell of flowers.
The confusing silence that settled over the apartment afterward.
I remember standing beside the window expecting to hear my father's key in the lock.
For months, I couldn't understand how someone who filled so much space could simply stop being there.
My mother tried to be strong.
She went to work.
Paid bills.
Cooked dinner.
And made sure my younger brother, Elijah, and I continued going to school.
But I often heard her crying after she thought we were asleep.
The apartment became quiet in a way that frightened me.
Mrs. Lau noticed.
She began inviting me downstairs after school.
Sometimes I helped fold paper bags.
Sometimes I counted coins.
Sometimes I sat near the kitchen watching her prepare food.
She didn't force me to talk about my father.
She simply made room for me.
At first, I went because I liked the bakery.
Then I began going because the sound of people speaking Cantonese made the world feel alive again.