In New York, 1997, gallerist Sang Linh recalls taking down Orkideh's third sellout exhibition, Why We Put Mirrors in Birdcages, with Roya (Orkideh) and Sang's eldest son Duy, whom Sang paid fifty dollars a day to help install and uninstall shows. Roya was obsessive about handling her own paintings, never fully trusting others.

While sanding spackle and listening to pop radio, Duy carried over Odi et Amo, a painting of a crucified hand tenderly clutching its nail, destined for collector David J. T. Swartzwelder, who had purchased a third of the show. The painting's watery browns reminded Sang of her mother pouring leftover tea into her bathwater, triggering a sensory memory of pandan leaves.

Watching Roya and Duy together, Sang was overwhelmed with gratitude, recognizing the moment as a kind of climax in her marriage to Roya—a counterweight to the despair she had known under an abusive husband. She instinctively stored such joys away for harder times to come.

Roya playfully embraced Sang and joked that with her show earnings she would buy a giant Cadillac car door, so that when the world ended and only the two of them remained, she could roll down its window when it got hot. Her booming laughter at her own absurd joke spread to Sang and Duy, and the three spent the night working, singing, and dancing in the gallery, suspended in a moment of unbreakable happiness.