I looked at the letters that Paul was poring over. They were all addressed to his mother and written by his godfather.

    "I write to you from Taipei, where the weather is cold and I am thinking of you, missing your gentle laugh and your face. I long to return to Singapore soon. I want to see you again."

    Protestations and declarations of love. Recollections of love-making. The letters were tender, fluid and almost surreal, telling a story of quiet sincere passion.

   They had shocked Paul into drinking. He couldn't imagine his mother having an affair while his family had kept a semblance of perfect harmony and order.

    Would he be able to accept me for having an affair?