I was in the kitchen early, rinsing strawberries in a small colander while the kettle hummed on the stove. Julian was still asleep, and the apartment had that particular stillness it only seemed to hold before the day began. I had planned to spend the morning answering emails from the Kyoto artisans and finalizing next month’s display schedule at the boutique.

The phone rang before the water boiled. It was my mother. Her voice sounded lighter than usual at first, as if she didn’t want to ...