Chapter 27
twenty-seven
LILIANA
“Please tell me you brought back li hing mui mango.”
“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 tripped over 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.
Boyfriend. I have a boyfriend.
I’ve never felt as if I couldn’t tell my parents things. When it really comes down to it, I trust them with everything. It’s not that I don’t feel comfortable telling them I’m in a relationship.
Rather, I’m afraid of what will happen if they don’t approve of Grant.
As dedicated as I am to living my life by their wishes, I don’t know if Grant is someone I could give up if they asked me to.
His mind, the kindness he’s shown me, and the dedication he has to the people he loves, is irreplaceable.
I don’t think I’ll ever find a man like him in this lifetime or the next.
My parents are admiring the notebooks, gushing over the name embellishment Grant chipped in for, and guilt pushes past my nerves.
“To be honest.” I wring at my hands. “My boyfriend helped with it. The presents, I mean.”
The words are rushed out and I prepare myself for the worst. I’m not exactly sure what the worst is. A dramatic siren firing off? My mom and dad dropping their gifts and falling to their knees in anguish?
The hasty mental preparations are fruitless, it turns out. Nothing like that happens. My mom breaks into a wide grin and my dad pops his hip back out again.
“Since when do you have a boyfriend?” The question is lighthearted, mom practically singing it.
I’m still wringing at my hands, albeit a bit slower. It’s not instant disapproval. She seems amused, even.
Half of my brain asserts that my parents disliking Grant is a very real possibility, and if that were to happen, I need a game plan. The deeper Grant and I get into learning one another, the more convinced I am that I was never meant to experience life without him.
The other half of my brain is screaming there’s nothing to worry about. They haven’t shown a single negative sign so far. Just because every moment until this one was committed to meeting my parents’ expectations, doesn’t mean I should be preparing for the worst.
Neither half sounds wholly convincing. I tug my fingers nervously. I’ll give information I think is necessary and go from there.
“It hasn’t been long.” By technicality, only a few weeks.
But in my heart, where the memories of Grant live, my feelings for him have been gradually developing for longer than I’ll ever understand.
“His name is Grant. I’ve known him since undergrad.
He’s an art student and he’s getting his master’s at Brookstone too. ”
It’s weird. I’m excited but scared. Speaking about him and his accomplishments fills me with pride. But mentioning a master’s degree acts as a reminder that my parents’ approval has been my priority for everything.
“I like that he’s getting an education.” My dad nods but doesn’t say anything else. It spikes my anxiety.
“I hope you guys can meet him one day.” I don’t know whether to sing his praises or change the subject entirely. “And I hope you’ll approve of him.”
Grant is a great person—one of the best people I know. He has ambitions and goals and he treats me like I outshine the sun. He’s smart and funny and kind. And I could come up with a million and one reasons why he is the epitome of my perfect man.
Despite that, I feel my stomach drop. I consider every reason my parents would push against him, and I plan out how I’m going to navigate slipping further away from being the daughter they’ve always wished for. Around them, the pressure of that feels even heavier on my shoulders.
Mom sets her notebook on the coffee table, my father’s stacking on top of it, before she smiles.
“Sweetie, you don’t need our approval.”
I blink. Scrunch my eyebrows. Tilt my head.
“Yes I do.”
I can’t think of anything I need more than that. I can’t think of a moment when I didn’t live for it.
There are two laughs, neither of which are mine, before my mom doubles down.
“Since when? You do what makes you happy. That includes dating who makes you happy.” They continue to laugh but I’m struggling to find any humor in the situation.
“You’ve always done whatever you wanted. Now’s not any different.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Is that how they’ve perceived me?
It’s wrong. Completely wrong.
Dad goes back to the cans of spam laying in his suitcase. Mom returns to the charging cord she’s unraveling. And I’m bolted to my spot in the middle of the living room.
I haven’t felt this blindsided since I failed my first assignment this semester.
“Is that how you perceive me?” I softly ask. It’s the only thought swirling in my head.
Cans are still being unloaded from luggage, but mom pauses to look at me.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you think-” What I’m about to say is so absurd, so against everything I’ve centered my life around, that I struggle to spit it out. “Do you think I live my life for myself?”
It’s not meant to sound so dramatic. The last thing I want my parents to think is that I’m having a life-altering realization that could completely upend how I carry myself day-by-day.
I blink. That’s exactly what’s happening. But they shouldn’t be exposed to that information.
“Who else are you going to live it for?” My dad laughs again, taking the last can out of the suitcase. From this angle he can’t see my mom’s furrowed brows.
I answer dejectedly. “For you two.”
It feels like my world stops. I never thought I’d have to outline this for my parents. It’s been second nature for as long as I can remember.
My dad doesn’t seem phased. He continues unpacking the miscellaneous items. My mom repeats herself.
“What do you mean?”