Chapter Fourteen The Video Call
Miu had been avoiding this call for three weeks.
Her mother called every Sunday at 7 PM Thailand time, which was 5 AM Vancouver time. Miu usually called back later, when she was awake enough to form sentences. But this week, she had run out of excuses. Her mother had sent a text that said, simply: You call me today. I am worried.
So Miu sat on her couch at 6 PM Vancouver time, the cat on her lap, her phone propped against a stack of scripts, and pressed the video call button.
Her mother answered on the second ring.
"Miu! Finally! I was beginning to think you had died."
Aroon Srisuwan was sixty-two years old, had the energy of someone half that age, and had never learned to modulate her voice for phone calls. Her face filled the screen—dark hair streaked with grey, sharp eyes that missed nothing, the same smile that Miu saw in the mirror every morning.
"I'm not dead, Mae."
"You look tired. Are you eating? You're too thin."
"I'm not too thin. I'm normal thin."
"Normal thin is too thin. You need meat on your bones." Her mother leaned closer to the camera. "And your face is round. Have you gained weight?"
Miu's hand instinctively went to her stomach. "No. I haven't gained weight."
"Your face says different. Are you stressed? Is it work? You work too much. I told you, writing is not a real job."
"It's a real job, Mae."
"Writing about cats is not a real job."
"It's not about cats. It's about a cat who starts a revolution. There's a difference."
Her mother waved a hand. Behind her, Miu could see the kitchen of the family home in Chiang Mai—the same yellow tiles, the same wooden cabinets, the same pot of something simmering on the stove. Her father appeared briefly, waving at the camera before disappearing again.
"Your father says hello," her mother said. "Now tell me why you look like a ghost."
Miu took a breath. She had practiced this. She had rehearsed the words a dozen times. Mae, I'm pregnant. It was an accident. A lab accident. There's a donor. It's complicated.
What came out was: "Mae, I'm pregnant."
Her mother's face froze.
The kitchen behind her kept moving. Her father was still cooking. The pot was still simmering. But Aroon Srisuwan had stopped completely.
"You're what?"
"Pregnant. I'm pregnant."
The silence stretched. Miu could hear her own heartbeat. The cat, sensing her tension, dug his claws into her thigh.
"You're not married," her mother said.
"No."
"You don't have a boyfriend."
"No."
"You told me you were too busy for romance."
"I am too busy. This isn't... it's not that kind of situation."
Her mother's eyes narrowed. "What kind of situation is it?"
Miu opened her mouth. Closed it. How did you explain a fertility clinic accident to a woman who still called the internet "the Google"?
"It was a medical thing," Miu said. "I went in for a routine procedure and there was a mix-up and now I'm pregnant. It's a donor egg. From someone else. And it's... it's happening."
Her mother stared at her. Then, slowly, her face changed. The sharp lines softened. The suspicion faded into something else—something Miu hadn't expected.
"You're keeping it?" her mother asked.
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Are you scared?"
Miu swallowed. "Terrified."
Her mother nodded slowly. Then she turned away from the camera and shouted, "Prasert! Come here! Your daughter is pregnant!"
Her father appeared immediately, wiping his hands on a towel. He leaned into the frame, his face confused. "Pregnant? Miu is pregnant?"
"Pregnant," her mother confirmed.
"With who?"
"Some kind of medical situation. She'll explain later. Right now, she looks like she's going to cry."
"I'm not going to cry," Miu said. Her eyes were burning.
Her father looked at the screen. His face was kind, the way it had always been—the soft counterbalance to her mother's sharp edges. "Are you okay, little one?"
"I'm okay. I'm just... it's a lot."
"It's always a lot," her mother said. "The first one is always a lot. I was terrified when I was pregnant with you. I didn't sleep for three months."
"Three months?" Miu's father said. "You slept fine. I was the one who didn't sleep."
"You slept like a baby. I was the one carrying the baby. There's a difference."
Miu laughed. It was watery, half-choked, but it was a laugh. The cat shifted in her lap, annoyed.
"Who's helping you?" her mother asked.
"What?"
"Who's helping you? You can't do this alone. You live in that tiny apartment with the broken things. Who's making sure you eat? Who's going with you to the doctor?"
Miu opened her mouth to say I'm fine, I can take care of myself. That was her usual answer. The one she had been giving since she was sixteen and moved out of her parents' house and into a shared apartment with three people she barely knew.
But the words didn't come. Because the truth was, she wasn't doing it alone. Someone was making sure she ate. Someone was going with her to the doctor. Someone was washing her dishes and making her soup and texting her every morning to ask how she was feeling.
Before she could stop it, her eyes flicked to the kitchen.
Lena was there.
She was standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot. She had let herself in—she had a key. She was wearing sweatpants and an old t-shirt, her hair loose, her feet bare. She looked like she belonged there.
"Miu," her mother said. "Who is that?"
Miu's head snapped back to the phone. "No one. That's no one."
"That's not no one. There's a woman in your kitchen."
"It's my landlord."
Her mother's eyebrows rose. "Your landlord cooks for you?"
"She's... it's a long story."
"Is she the donor?"
Miu choked. "What? No. No, she's not the donor.
She's the—" She stopped. How did she explain Lena?
The egg owner. The CEO. The woman who had moved into the apartment above hers because she was "choosing to show up.
" The woman who was currently stirring soup in Miu's kitchen like she had been doing it for years.
"Miu." Her mother's voice was sharp. "Bring the phone to the kitchen."
"Mae—"
"Bring the phone to the kitchen."
Miu looked at Lena. Lena looked back. She had clearly heard everything—the walls were thin, and Miu's mother was not quiet.
"I'm sorry," Miu mouthed.
Lena's expression didn't change, but her shoulders tensed. She set down the spoon.
Miu walked to the kitchen, phone extended. The cat jumped off her lap and ran to hide under the couch. Coward.
She angled the camera toward Lena, who was standing very still, very straight, very much like she was about to give a boardroom presentation in a t-shirt and bare feet.
"Mae, Papa, this is Lena. She's... she's the woman whose egg was accidentally transferred into my uterus. She lives upstairs. She's been helping me. With the pregnancy. And the morning sickness. And everything."
Her mother stared at the screen. Her father stared at the screen. Lena stared at the screen.
Then her mother said, "You're the one who made her pregnant?"
Lena blinked. "Technically, it was a lab error—"
"Accidentally," Miu cut in. "It was an accident."
Her mother waved a hand. "Accident, not accident. The baby is happening. And you are here, in her kitchen, making food."
"Soup," Lena said. "Vegetable soup. She likes it with ginger."
Her mother's face did something complicated. Her father, behind her, was grinning.
"You know how she likes her soup," her mother said.
"She's been sick. The ginger helps."
"You take care of her."
"I'm trying to."
Her mother nodded slowly. Then she turned to her husband. "Prasert. She's in love with our daughter."
Miu's face went red. "Mae—"
"She's in love with you," her mother continued, ignoring her. "She's standing in your kitchen, barefoot, making you soup, and she knows you like ginger. That's love."
Lena opened her mouth. Closed it. For the first time since Miu had met her, she looked genuinely lost for words.
"It's not—" Lena started.
"She didn't deny it," Miu's father said.
"Mae, Papa, please—"
"Look at her face," her mother said. "She's blushing."
Lena was not blushing. Lena's face was the same neutral mask she wore in boardrooms. But her ears were red. Miu noticed. She didn't know why she noticed.
"Mae, can we please talk about something else?"
"Something else? My daughter is pregnant, living alone, and there is a woman in her kitchen making soup who is definitely in love with her. What else is there to talk about?"
"The baby," Miu said desperately. "We could talk about the baby."
Her mother's eyes softened. "The baby. Yes. Tell me about the baby."
Miu took a breath. "I'm twelve weeks. The ultrasound was good. Everything is healthy. The doctor says—"
"Twelve weeks," her mother interrupted. "You've been pregnant for twelve weeks and you're only telling me now?"
"I was scared."
"You were scared?"
"I didn't know if I was going to keep it. And then I decided to keep it, and then I didn't know how to tell you, and then—"
"Miu." Her mother's voice was gentler now.
The sharp edges smoothed away. "I was scared too.
Every day. When I was pregnant with you, when I was raising you, when I moved back to Thailand and left your father behind for six months because I missed my mother so much I couldn't breathe.
" She paused. "Being a mother is being scared. That's the job."
Miu's eyes burned. "Mae—"
"You're going to be fine. You're strong. You're stubborn. You get that from me." She glanced at Lena, who was still standing by the stove, still pretending she wasn't listening. "And you have someone who makes you soup. That's more than I had."
Lena's ears went redder. Miu pretended not to notice.
"Now," her mother said, "let me see the apartment. Is it clean? Are you eating vegetables? Have you gained weight?"
"I'm fine, Mae."
"You're not fine. You look tired. And your cat is fat."
"The cat is not fat. He's fluffy."
"He's fat. Put Lena back on the screen."
Miu hesitated. "Why?"
"I want to talk to her."
"Mae—"
"Put her on."
Miu looked at Lena. Lena looked at the phone. Then she walked over, wiped her hands on her sweatpants, and took the phone from Miu's hand.
"Hello, Mrs. Srisuwan."
"Call me Aroon. Are you taking care of my daughter?"
"I'm trying to."
"Trying is not enough. Is she eating?"
"She ate breakfast this morning. Rice porridge. She's been keeping it down."
"Is she sleeping?"
"She falls asleep on the couch most nights. I cover her with a blanket before I go upstairs."
Miu's mouth fell open. She didn't know Lena did that.
Her mother nodded slowly. "She's stubborn."
"I've noticed."
"She won't ask for help."
"I've noticed that too."
"But you help anyway."
Lena glanced at Miu. Just a glance. Quick. "She doesn't have to ask."
Miu's mother was quiet for a moment. Then she said something in Thai—too fast for Miu to follow, but the tone was clear. Approval. Lena didn't understand the words, but she seemed to understand the tone. She nodded once.
"Thank you," Lena said.
"Thank me by feeding her," her mother said. "And send pictures of the ultrasound. I want to see my grandchild."
"I will."
"Good." Her mother's voice softened again. "Lena."
"Yes."
"Take care of her. She's stubborn and she's difficult and she thinks she doesn't need anyone. But she does. She needs someone who stays."
Lena's voice was quiet. "I'm staying."
Miu's heart did something strange. Something she didn't want to name.
Her mother said something else in Thai—softer this time, almost a whisper. Then she hung up.
The screen went dark.
Lena stood there for a moment, holding the phone. Then she handed it back to Miu.
"Your mother is terrifying," Lena said.
"Yeah. She likes you."
"How can you tell?"
"She threatened you in Thai. That's her way of saying she approves."
Lena's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost. "What did she say?"
Miu hesitated. Then: "She said if you hurt me, she will fly here and make you regret it. And she knows how to make a poison that looks like a heart attack."
Lena stared at her. "Is she serious?"
"Completely."
"That's... concerning."
"That's my mother." Miu set down the phone. Her hands were shaking. She didn't know why. "She also said something else. Before the threat."
"What?"
Miu looked at her. At the bare feet. The sweatpants. The ears that were still slightly red. The woman who made her soup and covered her with blankets and said she doesn't have to ask.
"She said you look at me the way my father looked at her. When they first met."
Lena's face didn't change. But her ears got redder. Miu noticed again. She noticed a lot of things about Lena lately.
"I don't know what that means," Lena said.
"Yes you do."
"I don't."
"You're a terrible liar."
"I'm an excellent liar. I've been lying to boardrooms for fifteen years."
"But you can't lie to me."
Lena was quiet. The soup bubbled on the stove. The cat emerged from under the couch and padded over to Lena, rubbing against her ankles.
"No," Lena said finally. "I can't lie to you."
Miu's heart did that thing again. The thing she wasn't naming.
"The soup is burning," Miu said.
Lena turned. Rushed to the stove. The soup was fine. Miu had lied.
Lena looked back at her. "You lied."
"You said I was a terrible liar."
"I said I was an excellent liar. I didn't say anything about you."
"You just lied again."
"I did not."
"You did. Your ears are red."
Lena's hand went to her ear. Miu laughed. The sound surprised her—real, warm, unguarded. Lena stared at her like she had never heard anything better.
"What?" Miu asked.
"Nothing. Your laugh. It's..."
"What?"
"Nothing." Lena turned back to the soup. "Your mother asked me to feed you. Sit down. It's almost ready."
Miu didn't sit. She stood in the kitchen, watching Lena stir the soup, watching the steam rise, watching the light catch in her hair.
"Mae liked you," Miu said.
"She threatened to poison me."
"That's how she shows affection."
Lena ladled soup into a bowl. Handed it to Miu. Their fingers touched. Neither pulled away.
"You should call her more often," Lena said.
"Why?"
"Because she worries about you. And because she said I should send pictures of the ultrasound. I don't have any pictures of the ultrasound."
Miu smiled. "I'll send you one."
"I'd like that."
Miu sat down with her soup. Lena sat across from her, in the armchair. The same positions. The same distance. But something had shifted. Something had changed.
"Lena."
"Yes."
"My mother was wrong about one thing."
"What?"
Miu looked at her. At the sharp jaw. The careful hands. The ears that were still slightly red.
"She said you were in love with me. That's not right."
Lena's face went still. "It's not?"
"No." Miu took a bite of soup. Chewed. Swallowed. "You're not in love with me. You're just... here. Every day. Making soup. Covering me with blankets. Remembering the ginger."
"That's not love?"
"I don't know what it is. But it's something."
Lena was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "It's something."
They finished the soup in silence. The cat curled up between them. The rain tapped against the window.
Later, when Miu walked Lena to the door, she paused.
"Same time tomorrow?" Lena asked.
"Same time tomorrow."
Lena nodded. Walked upstairs. Miu closed the door.
Her phone buzzed. A text from her mother: I like her. She stays.
Miu typed back: She does.
Another text: Send ultrasound.
Miu opened her photos. Found the ultrasound picture. Sent it to her mother. Sent it to Lena too.
A moment later, Lena's response: Is that the baby?
Yes. That's your baby too, technically.
It looks like a bean.
It's twelve weeks. They all look like beans.
It's a very good bean.
Miu smiled. Actually smiled, alone in her apartment, at a text about a bean.
She set down the phone. Looked at the ceiling. Upstairs, Lena was probably looking at the same ceiling crack from the other side.
She wondered if Lena knew it was shaped like broccoli. She wondered if Lena had noticed any of the other things Miu had started noticing.
The way she smiled when she thought no one was looking. The way she said I remember everything like it was a fact, not a confession. The way she stayed.
Miu turned off the light. The cat jumped onto the bed. The rain kept falling.
She fell asleep thinking about soup, and beans, and the woman upstairs who had red ears and didn't know how to lie.
---
Upstairs, Lena sat on her couch, staring at the ultrasound photo on her phone.
It's a very good bean, she had written.
She meant it. The bean was small and blurry and looked like nothing. But it was hers. It was Miu's. It was theirs.
She thought about Miu's mother. The way she had looked at her through the screen—suspicious, then assessing, then approving. You look at her the way my father looked at my mother.
Lena didn't know what that meant. But she knew she didn't want to stop looking.
She set down her phone. Turned off the light.
Downstairs, Miu was sleeping. Upstairs, Lena was thinking.
Neither of them used the word love. Not yet.
But it was there, in the space between them. Growing. Waiting.
Like the bean.