“We also brought breakfast.” Dad looked everywhere but at me.
“We figured you wouldn’t have time to eat.” Mom held up a pink box, and my saliva gland’s rate of drool production wentfrom puddling to flash flood. The scent of sesame, cinnamon, and butter filled my tiny apartment.
“It’s huajuan,” said Dad, still not making eye contact.
Huajuan, pronounced hwa-jwahn (as if that makes it any easier), is a traditional Chinese pastry where light fluffy dough is rolled and steamed. The ones in the box Mom held were smeared with sesame paste and dusted with cinnamon and powdered sugar. Best of all, they didn’t resemble any part of the male anatomy.
“Edgar sent them,” announced Mom.Of course, he did.Mom’s face reminded me of a very cunning but also very evil fox who had just tricked a crow into dropping her hunk of cheese. I’m the crow, by the way, in this scenario.
“He told me to tell you hi.”Of course he did.“So, hi,” Mom continued. Then she waved.
My mother and Edgar’s mother had been trying to get the two of us together for years.
Edgar was the type of son that every Chinese American parent dreamed about. He studied hard in school, never got caught smoking pot in his parent’s gazebo, and got a full ride to Stanford where he got his MBA and graduated Magna Cum Laude. Heck, if I were my mother, I’d try to force me into an arranged marriage with Edgar too.
But while Edgar was every Chinese American parent’s dream child, I was the type of daughter that haunted every Chinese American parent’s nightmares. My grade point average in high school rhymed with the word “shoe.” Not only did I get caught smoking pot (yes, in my parents’ gazebo), I also totaled their Honda Odyssey two days after I got my license, dyed my hair pink for prom, and dated a black guy when I was twenty-three. Just to clarify, the fact that he was black wasn’t the problem. They took issue with the fact that he wasmajoring in Film Studies, which they felt would inevitably lead to a life of perpetual unemployment (which, of course, is true).
Basically, I’d become the cautionary tale parents used to scare their children into compliance. The whispered warning at family gatherings. You don’t want to end up like Samantha, do you? All that potential and now she takes pictures of fancy things for strangers.
On the plus side, I did end up going to Stanford, but I dropped out once my influencing gigs took off, and the only MBA I ever got was a Masters in Binging Alcohol. Pina coladas specifically, with a minor is smoking pot.
To be clear, I didn’t resent Edgar for being perfect. I resented him for making my imperfection so visible by comparison. He’d taken the path everyone else thought I was supposed to take and walked it flawlessly, which made my departure from that path feel less like brave independence and more like elaborate self-sabotage.
“You know, Samantha, Edgar runs his family’s bakery now.”
“Yes, Mom, I know.” I knew because Mom had mentioned it twenty-five million times, along with Edgar’s interviews in LA food blogs, his recent expansion into organic sourdough, and his decision to modernize the family recipes while still honoring tradition.
“At least he put his Stanford education to good use,” Dad added, twisting the knife deeper into my spinal cord. I braced for the inevitable. You see, despite the fact that my father was born and raised in Southern California, English was still effectively a second language. At home growing up, we almost exclusively spoke Cantonese. However, despite this, my father was a world-class master linguist when it came to referencing the fact that he was still making payments on my student loans, which he could literally work into any and all conversations.
“That reminds me,” said Dad, right on schedule. “I still need last quarter’s loan payment invoice so I can give it to my accountant.”See?
“That’s okay, darling.” Mom patted Dad on the shoulder with the patient smile of someone who’d perfected the art of loving disappointment. “I’m sure Samantha will go back and finish her schooling once she gets bored with the silly chat snapping.”
“It’s called Snapchat, Mom. I told you.”
“Tickingtalking, Instatube, Facepage, it’s all just a fad.” Mom snorted and shook her head.
“Thenyoucan take overyourfamily’s business.” Much like my mother’s continuous efforts to pimp me out to Edgar, my father’s personal life quest was to convince me, his only child, to take over our family business so he could retire. “It’s what your great-great-great-grandfather always wanted.”
“Right.” This was also a story I’d heard a million times before. According to family legend, my great-great-great grandfather traversed six thousand nautical miles of shark-infested waters to start a new life in America, just so one day, his great-great-great granddaughter could serve broth-covered dumplings to tourists.
“We can come with you to Colorado if you want,” Mom said, causing me to choke on a bite of huajuan. “Your father and I are always happy to support you.” My parents considered a constant flow of constructive criticism support.
“Absolutely not,” I sputtered, still coughing. “You may not have realized it yet, but I’m actually NOT a toddler anymore. I don’t need chaperones.”
“Are you sure?” Mom looked around my apartment, taking in the chaos of unopened packages, discarded takeout containers, and a half-eaten breakfast burrito still on the counter from yesterday. “Because it looks like you might.”
I followed her gaze, seeing my carefully curated life through her eyes. To my legions of followers, I was the picture of put-together millennial success. Artfully arranged coffee cups. Motivational quotes over tasteful decor. Morning routine videos that definitely didn’t feature yesterday’s underwear still damp in the dryer. But Mom saw the truth. I was a master of surfaces, a disaster of depths.
“I’m twenty-six years old,” I reminded them. “I’ve been living on my own for years. Mostly.”
“And yet you still can’t do laundry,” Mom observed, eyeing my towel-covered body. “You get dressed. Your father and I will take care of everything else.
Chapter Four
The drive to LAX was a nonstop lecture on the dangers of Colorado, interspersed with thinly veiled suggestions that I might want to consider a more stable career path. The unspoken subtext hung in the air thicker than LA smog. If this trip failed, it wouldn’t just be professional embarrassment. It would be confirmation that all their multitudes of parental investments had been a waste. Proof that I should have listened to them from the beginning.
“I put in some vitamin C packets and Pepto-Bismol,” said Mom, peeking back at me through the rear-view mirror. “You know how sensitive your tummy is.”
