“Come on,” I say, “we’re going to Phú Nhuận market.” A short walk away we find the open-air bazaar where our mother used to take us shopping. There’s asphalt under our feet now, instead of dirt, but the white noise of haggling shoppers and merchants awakens a vivid memory. The place feels the same: alive, bustling, but not chaotic. Produce vendors pepper us with questions upon learning that we’re Americans who were born nearby: Where was your house? Where do you live now? How old are you? Are you married? How many children do you have? The questions are personal, yet there’s an odd intimacy between us. We may ask you such things, the vendors seem to say, because you are one of us. We, too, are burning with questions. Like all the Vietnamese-Americans I know who have gone back, my sisters and I are burdened by a recurring thought: What would life have been like if we’d stayed? One of the vendors tells us tearfully of the hardships and austerity of the years after the way. She says that times are better now, though, and that Saigon is full of optimism.