“Who do we look like?” Dad holds his hands over his hips, popping his leg out sassily. “Parents who wouldn’t bring back li hing mui mango?”
I snort. “You look like someone who would eat my mango on the flight back and pretend he forgot to pack it.”
“I would never.”
“Don’t lie.” My mom appears next to me, producing a bag of my favorite local snack out of her carry-on and into my hands. “He tried to eat it twice. I had to stop him.”
My dad’s hands go up dramatically. “Way to keep a secret! Aren’t you supposed to be my wife?”
Mom tsks, wagging her finger. “Cards off the table when it comes to my little girl.”
Ripping into the snack, the dried mango tastes even sweeter paired with my family’s antics. In my parents’ quaint one-story house, there are those funny memories everywhere. A hole in the living room wall the size of my dad’s elbow, left after he trippedover a power cord. Pictures of different childhood moments, none of which consist of serious, straight faces.
My pre-school graduation certificate, framed, hanging above both of my parents’ bachelor’s degrees. Because four-year-old Liliana said her accomplishment was the newest, therefore, it deserved to be on top.
Volunteering to help my parents unpack was half out of kindness, and half because I love being in this house and being around them.
And partially because I was hoping they’d bring back li hing mui mango.
For how long they were away, my parents don’t have much. Three suitcases total—one of which is filled to the brim with just local Hawai’i snacks and souvenirs. It’s also the only suitcase my dad has any interest in.
Dusting the li hing powder off my fingers, I take the spot next to him and start uncovering the things they’ve brought across the ocean.
Halfway through, after removing a button down I know he’ll be using at every semi-casual event in the near future, I let out a deep sigh.
“Why did you guys bring back this much spam?”
My mom ignores my question, choosing instead to unpack the rest of her carry-on.
My dad laughs. “We always bring back spam. You can only get the Portuguese sausage flavor on the islands.”
“I know that.” I motion towards the open suitcase. “But you don’t bring back this much!”
It can’t be any less than ten. Probably closer to fifteen.
Like any other Hawaiian family, mine grew up on spam. But even I can admit that this is a bit excessive for the three of us. Especially when normal, not specially flavored spam can be found down the street.
“I’m not planning to eat anything else for the rest of my life,” my dad deadpans. Which is his giveaway that he’s trying hard to be sarcastically funny and not hitting mark.
Without missing a beat, my mom, his more serious other half, chimes in. “We promised some colleagues we’d bring them back a few cans to try.”
That makes more sense. Every time my parents go back to the islands, they return with gifts for someone in their lives. I bet the license plate keychains tucked into the suitcase’s corner are for their students.
My mom and dad have always been the two that give. Going to O’ahu with an empty suitcase just to bring gifts back for the people in their lives, whether they expected something or not.
It makes my heart warm knowing their selflessness is what raised me. The tens of presents they’ve hauled back to Boston remind me of the gift I prepared for them while they were away.
“Oh! I got you two something.” While I’m pulling the matching notebooks out of my tote bag, my mom is telling me I didn’t need to get them anything. Dad is asking if it’s a new car.
The leatherbound notebooks are soft to the touch. Both a sleek brown shade with KAHALE embossed in the cover’s corner, they’re probably the most functional gifts I could get for two professors who seem to already have everything figured out.
“It’s not much.” I pass my parents one each. “Just a small welcome back present.”
“Sweetie.” My mom runs her hand over the leather a few times before pulling me in by my shoulders. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”
My dad presses a kiss atop my head before saying in a calm tone, “It’s very thoughtful. We love it.”
It is thoughtful, and I’m so glad they love the gift, but a nervous ball forms in my stomach. I can’t take all the credit—it was my boyfriend’s idea to get them presents, after all.
