Bushrang and I pulled by the curb in front of the house. It was a one-story mid-century affair with a driveway and a sprinkler-dotted lawn. He strolled up to the porch and rang the doorbell, while I trailed behind him with my suitcase in tow.

After an eternity of fifteen seconds the front door sprang open, flooding a section of lawn with the light streaming from the kitchen. In the doorway were Bushrang’s parents—shorter than I expected, but hale and hearty beyond their years.

“Hi Mom, hi Dad,” he said, as they motioned us in. “Um, this is my friend Grace. Grace, these are my parents.”

“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Prambikorn,” I said brightly, with a wave.

“Welcome in, Grace! Come and have a seat,” said Bushrang’s mother.

“Thanks,” I said. “And thanks so much for, uh, giving birth to Bushrang. All those years ago.”