Dumplings for lunch became a pleasant part of our lives, as did interactions with the dumpling makers.

One day, low on groceries, my son and I again took the horseshoe walk to the bao zi shop, but instead of steaming dumplings we found a lock and chains. We peered through the window. Everything was gone: the bao zi steamer, the stools, the juicer and bowls, the chopsticks, and, sadly, the dumpling makers. A piece of our lives was snatched away. We were left with only a barren cement frame.

Now when I make the walk from our gate to the main road, there is no smiling face for me to see, no place I am eager to stop at. A line of shops still stands but none that have burrowed their way into our lives.

This isn’t the only business to disappear over night. When we moved in, as we unpacked boxes into the evening, street venders rolled out their carts. As they barbecued, naked bulbs overhead shone onto skewers of roasted meat.

Those first few days, when our kitchen wasn’t functional, they fed us. Each eve, as the sun set, they set up. Then one night the moon shone over an empty street. No good-bye, just gone.

Then there was the restaurant where we could actually sit outside and eat. Our apartment doesn’t have an outdoor balcony and the one time we tried to barbecue in front of our building security guards quickly shut us down. Eating outside is such a treat that even with rodents scurrying under the floorboards we enjoyed it.

The place our kids dubbed The Rat Restaurant became a special place. It was a short walk from home and the food was flavourful. We spent Thanksgiving under their gazebo eating sizzling beef, mixed peas and corn, and grandma potatoes – a dish that gets its name because being mashed, even grandmas without teeth (and here they are plentiful) can enjoy them.

We went there just before our trip to Canada and our kids asked Just One Question. And it was there we spent New Year’s Eve with friends. We gave up on quieting the kids table and now, remembering how happy my kids were in our new neighbourhood, with new friends cheers me but also saddens me. The restaurant is gone – so are the friends. Moved on. As so many places and people do.

Our life is one of constant change, constant loss. It’s hard to say good-bye – even harder to open up again to someone new, wondering if they too will leave. I see this when I walk past the row of restaurants that line our street, wondering if they are good but not willing to try.

I want to protect myself from loss, but as aromas drift into the street I can’t help asking myself, by not risking what am I losing?