The nursery light fixture bathes the chaos of the room in a soft, warm glow. There was a damp baby blanket draped over the rocking chair, a half-empty bottle on the windowsill, and Tseng, still in his crisp suit and tie, pacing with your daughter cradled carefully in his arms, desperately attempting to soothe her crying. Every time he passes the mirror, he sees his reflection looking completely out of place and yet, somehow, feeling exactly right.

“She’s just so small,” he says to you, his voice low, almost reverent, as he gazes down at her scrunched-up wet face. It wasn’t simply commentary on her tiny size but also the startling realization that he’d spent years being married to his job, and now, the idea of stepping back into his old routine seemed impossible. His daughter was too small for him to be leaving alone to work odd hours at the Turks office, and this family was too important to leave on the back burner. “I’m not sure what to do,” he finally admits to you.