91 pastries. The sunny dining room was filled with the joyous chatter of family. Emiko remarked that the weather was getting colder and that the ginkgoes in the nearby park were beginning to yellow into gold. Their fruit would be dropping soon for the locals to collect in grocery bags. Grandpa Sato complained that the colder weather would make his joints hurt more. Mio said she looked forward to crunching her way through the fall leaves on her way to school, alone, she emphasized. She was, after all, seven years old. Grandpa Sato offered to test Mio’s addition skills. “Jiji wants to make sure his granddaughter becomes even brighter,” Grandpa Sato exclaimed. Mio refused and pouted. Mio’s mother quickly changed the subject. She mentioned that she had found a new American restaurant a train ride or so away that she wanted to try. “They are selling a food called a burrito, or something!” she said. “What is a murrito, mama?” Mio asked. “Burrito, sweetie.” “Burrido?” Mio tried. “Bu-ri-to, Mio.” Mother and daughter laughed until their sides hurt. They only noticed that Grandpa Sato was not laughing until they stopped. When their eyes lifted from each other, they saw tears in his, accompanied by a small smile. “Oh, otou-san!” Mio’s mother cried. She nervously began to
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