Chapter Three From Bad to Worse #2
Family dinners are supposed to be fun, a great way to catch up with those closest to us.
But let’s be perfectly honest, shall we?
They’re dick-measuring contests, designed to flaunt your latest achievements in a constant game of one-up.
I’m more than aware that the reason Mom is so bitter is because she can no longer use me as a trophy, can no longer live vicariously through my success.
She makes it no secret that I’m a failure in her eyes—and therefore her greatest shame.
Sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly angry with her, I try to remind myself that she was a young woman once too. It’s a trick my therapist suggested I try before I stopped going to see her.
Once upon a time, Mom must have had dreams, aspirations, hopes.
She must have experienced first love and heartbreaks.
There was likely a time when she made silly mistakes, or even egregious ones.
And for a moment, it helps me remember my compassion.
My empathy. Words spoken in anger are not always the result of a single moment, but a slow culmination of many.
“I’d rather not talk about this here,” I say firmly. “We’re here to celebrate Lily’s achievement.”
“Achievement? What achievement? She isn’t a lawyer yet.” She’s getting louder and louder as she speaks. Mom’s never had any volume control. “Do you have any idea how hard your father worked to provide for you two? Getting into law school is the bare minimum.”
I take a deep breath and count back from three.
Just because I went no-contact doesn’t mean I hate her.
Hate is a waste of energy. She’s in no way a bad person…
she’s just not a good parent. It’s an important distinction that I’ve worked hard to keep in mind, but boy is she good at blurring the lines.
She’s a lot to handle, but so am I. When two like sides of a magnet meet, the laws of physics dictate they’ll push one another apart.
“I don’t think it’s polite to diminish Lily’s hard work.”
God, could I sound more clinical? It’s like my ex-therapist is using me as a sock puppet and I’m just mouthing along to her words.
“Hard work,” Mom says with a scoff. “What do you know about hard work? Four years at MIT only to drop out in the last semester!”
Lily visibly squirms in her seat. “A-Ma, let’s not do this, okay?”
I wave my sister off. “No, no. Let her talk. She’s clearly got some things she wants to get off her chest.”
When Mom sits back in her chair, her head tilted up so she can sneer down her nose at me, I mimic her posture. I’ve made my boundaries clear, but since she won’t accept them, I show that I can give as good as I can take.
“You threw away a good thing,” she says. “All that, and for what?”
“You know precisely what happened,” I snap back.
“Young people today are so lazy. When I was your age, we worked hard and never complained.”
“Oh, yes. Let’s conveniently leave out the impact that’s had on your entire generation’s mental health, shall we?”
“Do you have any idea how many people want the opportunities you had? How can you be so ungrateful?”
“I never said I was ungrateful, Mom.”
“Your father and I sacrificed a lot for you.”
“I know, but—”
“Clearly that wasn’t the case!”
“You never stopped to try to understand what I was going through—”
“And now you walk in here, come eat my food…It’s shameful.”
“Mom,” Lily cries. “You promised!”
Fuck it. Coming here was such a bad idea.
There’s a reason why I haven’t made an effort to keep in touch with my family, and tonight has reaffirmed it.
Between my family’s toxically competitive nature and Mom’s outright hostility, there’s only so much that I’m willing to put up with.
I stand up from the table and glance down at my wristwatch—a gift from Dad the day I got my acceptance letter to MIT.
I lasted a whole half an hour. Impressive.
But now I’ve had enough.
“It’s fine,” I say calmly. “I think I’ve overstayed my welcome.”
Lily stands up too. “Addy, I’m so sorry, please don’t go.”
I grab the last remaining fish ball in my bowl, stuff it in my mouth and turn to leave. “Congrats on getting into law school. Text me pictures of your trip.”
“Mou gwai jung,” Mom mutters under her breath.
I freeze, her words cutting through me like a blade.
I lied before. That’s not all the Cantonese I know.
Mou gwai jung. Useless.
I take the train home. It’s mostly empty, so I’m able to snag a seat by one of the doors.
It’s after 9 p.m., but because the spring days are longer, the sun’s still out.
Come wintertime, it’ll be pitch-black by five, so I’ll enjoy it while I can.
Contrary to popular belief, it doesn’t rain in Vancouver 24/7.
Sometimes we’re capable of decent weather.
I hop off at Stadium-Chinatown and walk the rest of the way.
My apartment building is only a few blocks from the station.
I pass by not one, not two, but five unhoused individuals on my way.
Some ask if I have any spare change while most keep quietly to themselves.
Robert happens to be a familiar face, standing on his corner at West Pender and Homer Street.
“Good evening, Ms. Choi,” he says, chipper as always. His cart is full of empty plastic bottles.
“Good haul today?” I ask, digging into my pockets for that five I was saving just for him.
“Better than good. I hit the jackpot down on Main. Some sort of street festival. People were tossing their bottles left and right. I’m on my way to the depot now.”
“Nice,” I reply with a smile.
Dad was the one who introduced me to Robert at the food drive.
He’s a good man who fell on hard times, not unlike so many whom Dad helped.
From what Robert’s told me, he’s been on and off the streets for quite a while, but bless him, I see how hard he’s trying.
He broke his leg after a tumble down some stairs, and because he couldn’t work his construction job, he was let go.
One thing led to another, a downward spiral with no help in sight.
He couldn’t make rent payments and wound up living out of his car.
The only reason I know this is because I took the time to treat him like an actual human being.
Most people look at Robert and assume the worst. Drugs.
Alcohol. Gambling. But that’s not always the case.
And even if it were, that wouldn’t mean he doesn’t deserve respect like every other person.
“Is there anything I can help you with?” I ask. “Toiletries, blankets…”
“Oh, that’s alright. The jacket you got me last month was more than kind.”
I smile. “Well, if there’s ever anything you need, just let me know.”
“You’re a real one, Ms. Choi,” he says, pushing his cart. “Edwin would be proud.”
I ignore the lump that sticks to the back of my throat at the mention of my father’s name. It’s always hard to talk about him. I wave goodbye as I carry on my way. “I’ll see you soon.”
A part of me wishes I could help everyone in Robert’s position, but things have gotten bad in recent years.
With rent and the general cost of living through the roof, it’s frankly no wonder Vancouver’s seen a spike in the unhoused population.
I make a mental note to donate to a local soup kitchen the next time I manage a sizeable take.
As tempting as it is to go on a thieving spree, I have to be careful.
Too much heat will only bring unwanted attention.
Besides, it’ll take some time to find a fresh set of account numbers to target.
Mrs. Singh stands just outside the building’s entrance with her black Labrador, Pepper.
Pepper’s getting up there in years, the fur around her muzzle and eyes turning grayer by the day.
It’s rare for me to see these two apart; they’re usually out and about together for a bit of fresh air regardless of rain or shine.
“Hello, Adelina,” Mrs. Singh says as I bend over to pat her dog on the head. “Did your sister end up finding you? Goodness, when I saw her the other day I could have sworn she was you.”
I manage a tired smile. I was admittedly a little peeved that she gave away my favorite hiding spot, but I’m over it now. Arguments with my mother tend to put everything else into perspective. I don’t want to hold on to my anger like Mom does. “Yeah, she found me. Thanks for pointing her my way.”
We enter the building and ride the elevator together in blissful silence.
Mrs. Singh isn’t the chatty type, and since I’m not either, we make the perfect neighbors.
She gives me a polite smile and heads into her apartment, Pepper following dutifully behind.
I have to fish my keys out from the bottom of my backpack before heading into my own apartment, ready to put this sordid day behind me.
Days like today deserve a nice hot soak in the tub.
Only, I never make it to the bathroom.
Sitting on my secondhand leather couch in my too-tiny living room is a man I’ve never seen before.
He lounges, an arm slung over the back while one of his legs is crossed over the other.
He has short blond hair and piercing green eyes, and is dressed in a casual white button-down and black slacks.
He doesn’t look like a violent home invader, but looks can be deceiving. I, of all people, would know.
“Be not afraid,” he says with a light chuckle, like he’s some sort of biblically accurate angel trying not to freak out humankind. His voice is low and smooth. “As you can see, I’m unarmed. I just want to talk.”
I should run. I should scream. But for some reason, I’m frozen in place. Fight or flight is a real bitch, because I do precisely neither.
“Who the fuck are you?” I snap, my heart trying to thud its way out of my chest.
The cocky son of a gun has the audacity to smile. “My name is West Porter, and you’re Adelina Choi—the woman who stole my money.”