Chapter 9

9

The morning sun filtered softly through the curtains while I got ready for my visit to my parents' house. It was a rare off day, a chance to escape the demands of the tattoo shop and reconnect with my roots, else my folks would never let me live down what they would label as negligence. I slipped into a comfortable outfit with flip flops—ripped jeans and a casual band shirt—careful to choose something that would cover the more intricate tattoos. As much as I loved my ink, I knew it made my visits to my old-country parents a delicate balancing act. And I was exhausted from having to constantly explain myself just to calm their dramatics about my life choices.

I loaded up the trunk of my car with groceries—an assortment of fresh produce, staples, and a few treats I knew they'd like. It was my way of helping them out, easing the burden of their living costs since my father couldn't work anymore .

As I drove to their house, the streets flickered by, each familiar corner bringing a strange homesickness for the hood I had grown up in. The cracked sidewalks and vibrant murals felt like echoes of my past, reminders of a life I had left behind yet couldn't fully escape.

The drive was uneventful, but the neighborhoods served as a backdrop to my thoughts. I tried to brace myself for the inevitable round of questions and concerns that would await me. Would my mother's nagging about my life choices drown out any gratitude for the groceries? The uncertainty clung to me like a shadow, heavy and unshakeable.

When I pulled up in front of their small, one-story home, I took a moment to appreciate its familiar charm. The house could definitely use some repairs, with peeling paint and a roof that had seen better days, but it was surrounded by banana trees swaying gently in the breeze—a plant much too big for their small front yard— and their vibrant leaves a splash of color against the faded exterior. The other homes surrounding it were similar, with this part of the neighborhood being home to a large number of Asian families from similar backgrounds and histories.

I stepped out of the car, the familiar scent of earth, herbs and greenery filling the air, mixing with a hint of nostalgia. This place was steeped in memories—both good and bad. Each crack in the pavement and dent in the siding told a story of resilience, a testament to the life we built in this neighborhood.

As I walked to the front door and took off my shoes, I could hear my parents' voice spilling from inside, a comforting sound that made me smile despite the weight of my earlier thoughts. I knocked gently, feeling a rush of affection mixed with apprehension.

The door swung open, and my mother appeared, her face lighting up at the sight of me with a hint of worry. "There you are! Did you gain weight? Why are your cheeks rounder than the last time I've seen you?" she exclaimed, tutting as she ushered me inside.

In that moment, the noise of the outside world faded away. Despite my culture's strange tendency to veil criticism in every conversation, I felt a flicker of belonging.

"Ma, I weigh the same. I don't know what you're talking about," I said, grimacing at the way our conversation is starting. "It's good to see you too. I bought some groceries for you and Pa."

Her eyes softened, and she took the bags from me with a grateful smile. "Oh, thank you, Mae. You didn't have to do this. Come, let's put it in the refrigerator before it goes bad."

"I wanted to," I said, stepping inside after her. "How's everything been here? Do you need anything else?"

The interior of the home felt tight and cramped now that I was older, every inch carefully occupied. The living room was filled with mismatched furniture, the remnants of their attempts to create a cozy space. Plastic still covered the arms of the sofa and the corners of the dining chairs, a futile effort to preserve their newness against the wear of daily life .

The walls, painted a cheerful yellow, seemed to close in around me, and the family photos hanging in haphazard arrangements added a touch of warmth but also a sense of nostalgia that tugged at my heart. The kitchen, just a few steps away, was cluttered with small appliances and a collection of knickknacks, giving it a lived-in feel, despite the lingering sheen of plastic on the countertops. It was a strange mix of comfort and constraint, a reflection of their hopes and fears all wrapped into one small, bustling space.

My mother tutted again. "We don't need anything. We're doing just fine. Look at my garden; it's thriving! That helps us cut down on grocery costs."

I rolled my eyes at her take on cutting grocery costs. She was just being cheap but wouldn't admit it. Old habits from the motherland when they had to survive harsher times.

As we walked into the kitchen, my father appeared, his face a mix of sternness and relief. "Mae-Mae. I didn't know you were here. I thought your mother was talking to herself again."

My mother shot him a pointed glare. "I was simply discussing our grocery budget. We have plentiful bananas this year to share with the neighbors." She turns to me, ignoring my father. "They give us bitter melon. They grow them so big!"

My dad shook his head but didn't respond to her. "Mae-Mae, are you doing okay? Why are you here? Do you need money?"

It pained my heart that they still believed they needed to take care of me at the age of thirty-two, despite my constant reassurances. I had explained countless times that I made good money at the shop, but they just couldn't grasp why anyone would pay so much for ink. I was exhausted from the explanations and the looks that suggested I was still the child they brought with them overseas when our family was sponsored to America. Guilt washed over me for feeling this way; I knew the sacrifices they made to raise me in a land that was so unfamiliar to them.

"I'm fine, Pa," I replied, forcing a smile. "Really, I'm doing well. I just came by to check in on you guys and bring some groceries so you don't have to keep eating bitter melon soup."

"What's wrong with bitter melon?" my mother snapped. "It's great for your skin—that's why everyone thinks I look so young! You should eat more of it to help prevent aging. It's good to start now."

I bit my tongue, trying not to roll my eyes completely.

"Are you sure?" my dad pressed, his concern etched in every line of his tanned face. "You know we can help. We just want what's best for you."

My mother chimed in, "Exactly! A little financial support wouldn't hurt, especially with all those tattoos. Places don't like hiring people with tattoos. I've told you this before."

I took a deep breath, suppressing the urge to explain yet again. "I appreciate it, but I promise, I'm okay. This is my career, not just a hobby."

The familiar back-and-forth began to feel like a weight on my chest, a reminder of the chasm between our worlds.

"Okay. But if you need us, speak up. You can come by any time, we will be here," my dad reluctantly nodded.

"I'm doing well," I replied, taking in the sight of the modest kitchen where I'd spent countless hours as a child helping my mother. "Just wanted to come by and help out."

But when I spoke, I couldn't shake the feeling that duty and obligation were ingrained in every fiber of my being. The weight of familial expectations pressed down on me, a constant reminder that no matter how far I strayed from their path, I was still tethered to their hopes. Helping out felt less like a choice and more like a responsibility I couldn't escape—a confusing mix of emotions on my part. I loved them, there was no doubt about it. We just didn't express it the way other Western families did, I guess.

My mother began unpacking the groceries and arranging them on the counter. I could see the relief in her eyes as she surveyed the bounty of fresh produce from the Asian store. I moved to assist her without a word, waving her off. She patted my back and left the kitchen while I began slicing vegetables and preparing a meal for later. It was comforting to return to these familiar routines, even as they were tinged with the unspoken tensions of our conversations.

"So," my mother began, trying to keep the conversation light as she poured hot tea into delicate porcelain cups, "Work is good? You still in the same place? I heard Heang has an opening at her donut shop two streets down from here, you should go talk to her."

Her eldest son was also a drug addict who hung around Kaito's lackeys. I ignored her last statement and took a sip of tea. "Yes. It's going well. We've had some interesting projects lately."

My father cleared his throat, his gaze fixed on me. "You know, Mae-Mae, your mother and I have been talking."

I braced myself. This was always a prelude to one of those conversations about life choices, and it never failed to be uncomfortable.

"We were wondering," my mother continued hesitantly, "if you've thought about finding a different job? Maybe something more... traditional."

I set my teacup down, trying to keep my expression neutral. "I've told you before, Ma. I'm happy with what I do. It's not just a job for me; it's my passion. I'm good at it."

My father leaned forward, his voice gentle but firm. "We just want what's best for you. You're getting older, and it's important to think about your future. What if you don't find a husband? You need to have a stable job that's respected."

I felt a familiar frustration bubbling up. It was the same argument, recycled and regurgitated each time I came home. "Pa, I don't want to settle for something just because it's traditional or ‘respectable.' I want to be happy and fulfilled in what I do. We came to the land of opportunity, so it only felt right that I pursue my dreams."

My mother's brow furrowed, her concern evident. "But the tattoos... They make it harder for you to meet a good man. What if people don't take you seriously?"

I took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. "Ma, a man should love me for who I am, not because of what he thinks is acceptable or ‘normal.' They do not do arranged marriages here, well, I'm sure some men go overseas and do it. But what I'm trying to say is that my tattoos are part of who I am, and I'm not going to change them or my job to fit someone else's idea of what's right."

My father's expression softened, but he remained unconvinced. "We understand what you are saying and that you are smart, but we worry about your future. It's not just about finding a husband; it's about having security and stability. A family."

"Security and stability aren't just about a job," I said, my voice tinged with exasperation, rubbing my hand down my face. "They're about being true to yourself and doing what makes you happy because you only have one life to live—our family history and circumstances taught us that. How many loved ones have we lost already? They will never have a chance at life at all. I need to live for them."

There was a moment of silence as my parents exchanged glances, their worry palpable. I knew they meant well, but their expectations about how life should work created a constant source of tension. It pained me to feel this divide between us, the nagging fear that I was somehow letting them down. I wished it were easier for all of us to find a compromise, a middle ground where my aspirations could coexist with their hopes.

My mother finally spoke, her voice weary. "We just want you to be happy, Mae-Mae. We're afraid you'll face difficulties because of your choices."

I felt a knot tighten in my chest. Their love was undeniable, yet it came wrapped in layers of concern that often felt suffocating. How could I explain that my happiness didn't always align with their vision? It felt like a battle I fought every day, trying to carve out my own path while still honoring the sacrifices they'd made for me. I wished for understanding, for them to see that pursuing my dreams didn't mean I was abandoning them.

"I know," I said softly, hoping I was conveying my love for them. "But I need to follow my own path. I can't live my life based on what others think is best for me. I need to do what makes me feel fulfilled."

The conversation shifted to more neutral topics—family news, old friends, and upcoming holidays—but the tension lingered in the air. I could sense their residual concern.

As I prepared to leave, I awkwardly hugged my parents goodbye, a blend of relief and sadness washing over me. We weren't a family known for public displays of affection; we preferred to show our love through actions and care for one another. They loved me deeply, but their understanding of my choices was still confined by their traditional values. I hoped that, over time, they would come to accept my path, but for now, I needed to stay true to myself.

Driving away from their house, I felt a heavy weight lift off my shoulders. The road ahead was uncertain, but I was committed to navigating it on my terms. My tattoos were more than just ink—they were a symbol of my journey, my struggles, and my triumphs. And no matter what anyone else thought, they were a vital part of who I was.