Last month, my sister's name appeared in an obituary in Iowa. In 1998, she was a 16-year-old exchange student. Shy. Terrible English. She landed in Des Moines with one suitcase and a dictionary. Her host family had a farm and four sons. She became the daughter they never had. Her host dad taught her to drive a pickup in a cornfield. In Japan, you can't get a license until 18. In Iowa, she was driving before she could pronounce "Des Moines." When she left, he cried at the airport. She had never seen a grown man cry. In Japan, fathers don't. Every Christmas for 28 years, a card came from Iowa. Always the same first line. "To our Japanese daughter." When she got married, he flew to Tokyo. He sat next to our father at the wedding. Neither spoke the other's language. They shared a bottle of sake and nodded at each other for three hours. In August, he passed away. My sister flew 14 hours to the funeral. At the church, her four brothers walked her to the front row. The family seats. Then she read the obituary. "He is survived by his wife of 52 years, four sons, eleven grandchildren, and his daughter, Yuki, of Tokyo, Japan." Not "exchange student." Not "host daughter." Daughter. When she came home, she told our father. He didn't say a word. He went to his room. The next morning, there was a new photo on our family altar, where we keep our ancestors. A big man in a seed cap, smiling in a cornfield. Right next to my grandmother. Some families are too big for one country.