"More than a stunning debut. It is the announcement of a bold new literary voice"
—Stephen Chbosky, author of The Perks of Being a Wallflower

I never had gotten to see you, yet I still miss you.
You died when I was young; I don’t even remember the details of the only time I’ve seen you. All I knew back then was that you were my grandfather, who died when I was about three years old. Like the rest of my family, you were Chinese, a native of Shanghai. I knew the details of your gravestone, but not the details of your life.
That all changed when I had took interest in my family history.
Through wrinkled photographs and stories, I had heard more about you. You were born into a poor family with twelve siblings, passing a grade as a child. You were a genius of math and numbers, winning multiple awards for your skill at the subject. Later, you would go to Peking University, where you would meet my Lao-Lao.
I wished I had gotten the time to know you. That’s what makes me miss you. There is so much I want to tell you, so much I can speak. So many things have happened that I really can’t explain it in this letter.
You always had this radiant smile that even seemed to color the black and white photographs you were in. It makes sense; you cared about everything and befriended everyone you met. You sound like a really bright person to be around; when you died, so did the brightness.
After your death, everything seemed to fall apart. My family argued more constantly and the tension between my mother’s side and my father’s side started to rise. You were the peacekeeper; why did you leave?
Your granddaughter has so much potential. She writes stories with acclaim, keeps your legacy and spreads awareness about it to the world, and has done exceptionally well in school. I hope you could see me today, Lao-Yeh. I hope you could see the hard-working and talented girl that is your granddaughter.