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words with a smile, but instead she shot her husband another angry look.
    Beth and Devon continued to discuss the article. There was an exhaustive thoroughness to Beth’s explanations, so much so that she generated little forward movement. She seemed to circle in place, hovering over each word as she unpacked its meaning, before she moved on. She was, I could tell, a dogged perfectionist—she took all the time in the world to belabor each and every point. It was exasperating to watch. Yet Beth never seemed exasperated. She continued looking intently, tenderly, at her daughter until it was clear that Devon understood the whole piece.
    When they were finished, Beth folded her daughter into her arms. “
Wo ai ni,
Devon.”
    â€œ
Wo ai ni,
Ma,” Devon said, her arms wrapped in a choke hold around her mother’s neck.
    Then, perhaps so she wouldn’t leave her father out, she yanked on his hand. “
Wo ai ni,
Daddy.”
    He put down his paper. “I love you, too, Devon,” he said, and gathered her into a bear hug. Then the family reconfigured into a group huddle.
    Devon exchanged another conspiratorial look with her mother.
Should we?
she seemed to say. Beth nodded. Their circle parted. Ed Farley was opposite me at the far end of that circle, flanked by his wife and daughter. Devon and Beth each entwined their arms fiercely around me.
    It would have been so easy to write them off. Beth Mazer, with her hairy armpits and her complete lack of social grace. Ed Farley, gruff and a little cold, and probably ten years her junior. Their daughter, Devon, a half-pint-size imitation of her mother, even though she was Chinese. And now they were
touching
me. Sang and Hannah never hugged me. They didn’t even hug their own children. We were not a touchy-feely kind of family. I could have chalked up the whole strange experience to potential cocktail-party fodder:
This one time? When I interviewed to be a nanny?
They were a family of freaks.
    And yet.
    Something in that moment shifted for me; I can’t explain why. On a rational level, I recognized the corniness of the moment. I recognized the inappropriateness of their behavior, of the job itself, the underutility of my college degree. Yet I also considered the way Beth had explained the article to Devon, saw the way she was holding her now. I suddenly pictured myself living with them, being taken into the fold. It did not seem so far-fetched that I could be Devon’s au pair. My tense shoulders began to loosen. Slowly I returned Devon and Beth Mazer’s embrace. I took care not to brush hands with Ed Farley.
    And then, just as immediately, we broke free and something shifted again.
    â€œI know what you’re thinking. My Mandarin’s terrible,” Beth said.
    â€œIt’s true! All the kids at Chinese school make fun of Ma’s
bakgwai
accent,” Devon said.
    I didn’t know exactly what
bakgwai
meant, but I recognized it as a not-nice way the Chinese kids sometimes referred to the American kids at school. Beth blushed. I was surprised by how deeply her cheeks flushed red, for a woman who seemed to have no sense of shame. She said, “Be honest, Jane. Just how bad is my accent?”
    Did she think I was Chinese? If Beth Mazer hadn’t waved away my résumé, she would have found, listed under “Skills,” a proficiency in Korean, not Mandarin.
    â€œI’m . . . um, Korean—”
    â€œYou’re
not
Chinese?” Beth interrupted. “You mean, Ed didn’t . . .” I didn’t think her face could get any redder, but it grew redder still. Her eyes darted to her husband. “Ed!”
    While Ed Farley took his time composing his response, Beth whipped her head back to me. “
Please
don’t think I’m one of those people who just assumes. God, I’m mortified! You must think I’m a culturally insensitive
boor.
But it’s just . . . we