There are some memories you don't need a photograph to remember. You can taste them. You can smell them. You close your eyes, and suddenly you're there again. I'm a little girl in Montréal. It's late at night. The kind of late when the streets outside have gone quiet and the city feels tucked underneath the darkness. In winter, Montréal had its own soundtrack the scrape of snowplows against the street, boots crunching through snow, wind pressing against the windows, and orange streetlights reflecting across the white sidewalks. Somewhere beyond our home, Chinatown was still alive. Restaurants closing. Workers finishing long shifts. The last customers heading home. And my dad was making his way back from our family restaurant. We were waiting for him. Come Eat Sometimes we stayed awake just to see Dad come home. Other nights, we were already asleep when he walked through the door. Then the quiet of the house would change. Dad was home. And sometimes, he brought something...