In the summer of 1993 I noticed that my English flash card lessons were starting to pick up, along with talk that my departure date to Canada was drawing even nearer.

I didn’t like that one bit.

My whole family—my yéye, nainai, gugu, gufu，even my cousin JingJing—spoke of this “Canada” as if it were some sort of idyllic paradise, a place of abundant snacks and endless affection.

“You can eat whatever you want,” Nainai would say, as if I didn’t already have pretty regular access to all of my favorites on Héxìnglù.

“You will finally reunite with your parents,” my gugu added reassuringly, as if I didn’t already have five amazing people around me who loved me.

Looking back, it felt kind of cult-y, like gospel from the Church of Canadology that I was supposed to just accept. I played along, even though I was still rough on the exact terms of this proposition. Sure, I welcomed the thought of meeting more members of my family . . . but I had no idea that said new family members would come at the cost of everyone that I knew and loved.

So, with about as much agency as any four-year-old possessed, I kept on, ever the obedient child, dutifully memorizing my English flash cards. 苹果(píngguo)—Apple. 猫(mao)—Cat. 香蕉(xiangjiao)—Banana. 爸爸妈妈(bàbamama)—Parents, whom I would meet in the winter.

An air of excitement permeated our household in the days leading up to my father’s arrival in late December. Word had come to us that Bàba 3 would fly over to pick me up and escort me back to Canada, while Mama would meet us at the airport once we landed in Toronto. If my grandparents were dreading letting me go (they were), they went to great lengths not to show it. We made a big WELCOME BACK sign in giant letters and hung it on our door. I wore my nicest clothes on the day, an outfit of absolute fire consisting of a collared rugby shirt with blue and purple stripes, a pair of brown overalls with yellow polka dots and a vest that looked like a burlap sack. That’s right, I was pattern clashing way before it was cool.

My gugu and gufu came over and we prepared a feast that filled our little round table: white mushrooms with sliced pork, large tail-on shrimp, bean curd, soy-sauce ribs and Russian-style red sausage—my father’s favorite, apparently.

The food is starting to get cold when we hear a little knock on our door. I perk up anxiously as my yéye answers, opening the door to reveal a scrawny, square-faced man with bowl-cut hair wearing a big cozy sweater along with the bleary gaze of exhaustion that comes after an eighteen-hour train ride from Beijing. This man who resembles an Asian Eric Forman from That ’70s Show is my bàba, the man who I had waited my entire four-and-a-half-year life to reunite with.

This is the man who is going to bring me to the promised land of Canada.