It’s like she’s punched me. I was wrong to imagine we could simply be us one day. Or in a way, I was too right. I was thinking of it in the wrong way, because we already are us, today and right now.
The problem is that Mom and I, as an us, are not compatible.
“I’m not broken,” I say.
She waves her hand. “Don’t you understand what this could mean for you?”
I shut off completely. Byyou, she meansus—or more accurately,her. It always goes back to the store. Back to what I owe her for the priceless gift of allowing myself to be born the fifth daughter. “Fine.”
“You need to practice until you’re sure,” she says with finality. “The way you used to be. Dedicated. Not like a butterfly, going here and there to scent jewelry or make pointless things that smell like a fall fair.”
“Sure, Mom,” is all I say, but it hurts to know that’s what she thinks of my work. The anger has drowned under the soreness that simmers inside me whenever she’s near.
I smooth my hand over the embroidered band on the wide sleeve, the material catching on my rough fingertips. The silk might be light, but the garment is heavy with the weight of hope. That’s why I’d left the robe and all it represented behind when I started a new life as a nomad.
“I don’t understand you,” Mom says, sounding exhausted. “I don’t.”
“What don’t you understand? That I don’t want you bugging me about my moli all the time? That I want you to leave me alone? That my life is better when you’re away from me?” I draw in a ragged breath as she flinches.
Then she does the worst thing possible. She runs her hand gently along my hair and touches my shoulder. Her face is filled with pity.
“Go to bed soon,” she says softly. “You need rest.”
Before I can reply, she gathers the robe tightly in her arms, then leaves. Her bedroom door closes.
She didn’t deserve what I said to her. Luckily, we’ll pretend it didn’t happen and I won’t have to think of it again, except to add it to the list of shameful acts that parade through my brain at three in the morning.
I don’t deserve to be a Hua at all.
27
Hua Ninghong
Ming dynasty. Gave birth to a girl instead of a boy. Was forced to hide her baby from her husband and say the child was born dead so she could keep her safe.
Heart note //Reduce frustration
Base note //Peppermint
The next day, Saturday, I wake up with a fever. Mom takes one look at me and says, “You’re not going to work.”
“It’s my busiest day.” I wipe the sweat off my face. I hate being sick. I’ll have to get dressed and drag myself down to the corner store to get some ginger ale.
“I’ll go.”
I curl up on the couch, grateful to be prone. “You can’t work my perfume shop. Don’t be ridiculous. Ana can handle it.”
The fire from her gaze is hot enough to spike my fever. “Do you know who you’re talking to? I was selling perfumes before you were born.”
I pull the covers over my head. “Sorry.” At least my sickness has given us something to wrangle over that isn’t my behavior from last night.
“Get into the bed,” she says, pointing to the bedroom. “I’ll be back.”
I stumble in, relaxing into sheets permeated with my mother’s lightalmond-scented hand lotion. I text Ana to tell her about Mom standing in for me.
Ana:Can I bring you anything?
The instinctivenorises, but this time it’s justified.
