“You’ve been quiet,” Aunt Mei says, her eyes squinting at me. “Tired from work?”
My eyes dart to the clock on the wall. “A little.”
Ten minutes to go until the doorbell rings.
“Tired is normal.” Mom sets the tofu down. “Banking is a good job. Stable. Respectable. Not like those… what do you call them? Freelancers?”
I focus on the steam curling into the air and bite my tongue once more.Don’t say anything confrontational!I stab my chopsticks into a piece of tofu, put it in my mouth and let the numbing heat distract me.
“Stability is everything,” Dad chimes in. “Freelancers and other punks can’t afford to raise a family or buy an apartment in Paris. Remember that.”
“I remember.”It’s not like you guys let me forget.
“Will you reconsider meeting my friend’s cousin?” Aunt Mei jumps in. “You’re not getting younger, you know.”
Here we go.
“I’m only twenty-eight,” I remind her.
“And the clock is ticking!” She points her chopsticks at me like an accusation. “Do you want to end up like me?”
“Totally.”
Careful, Laura—keep it positive!
I smile softly before adding, “You create beautiful things, and you sell them at a profit. You’re a gifted artist and a shrewd businesswoman. You’re my role model, Aunt Mei.”
“I’m a bad model.” She shakes her head. “Professionally, I’ve made it. But, trust me, it’s brutal when you realize you’re middle-aged and alone. Do you really want that?”
“Well, I had a boyfriend until recently…”
“He was no good!” all three of them shout out in chorus.
“And also too young for you,” Aunt Mei adds.
“Mike is twenty-five,” I point out.
They respond with smug looks as if to say,point proven.
“The last thing I want for you is to become me, Laura,” Aunt Mei says with a dramatic sigh. “And I worry when I see it’s where you’re headed.”
I check my watch.It’s showtime!
“Please, don’t worry, Aunt Mei,” I say. “I won’t be alone much longer.”
She pauses, chopsticks in midair.
Mom frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The doorbell rings.
I stand so quickly my chair scrapes against the floor. Muttering “excuse me,” I scurry to the entryway and open the door. There they are—the TV crew. A cameraman, a sound technician holding the boom mic, and Isabelle, the anchor.
She beams. “Bonjour, Laura! Ready?”
“Hi everyone, come on in,” I say, stepping aside.
My heart races as they set up in the open kitchen, adjusting lights and testing sound, to the dumbfounded stares of my relatives.
