SIXTY-ONE
CALLUM
The air in the restaurant smells like my childhood—chives, sesame, a trace of star anise folded into decades of memory. The clink of chopsticks and the low hum of conversation wraps around us like a familiar blanket. But tonight, it feels heavier. Final.
Leith’s friend, Aaron Liu, sits across from me, smiling politely as he reaches for a dumpling.
His artfully messy hair and rolled-up sleeves don’t scream Chinatown restaurant owner, but his quiet enthusiasm has already won over my parents.
Earlier, he wrapped dumplings beside Mā, charming her with accented Mandarin as he called her Shīfu.
“Eat, eat,” she says, waving her hand as she sets down the xiao long bao. Her smile to Aaron is warm but tinged with bittersweet pride. “This is the last time you’ll get the real thing before you take over.”
Aaron chuckles, chopsticks poised. “Mrs. Han, I promise to follow the recipes exactly. This will always be your place.”
She smiles. “Good. But I’ll haunt you if you ruin it.”
The meal unfolds in that strange space between routine and ending. Passing dishes, pouring tea, eating slowly like we’re trying to draw out the moment. When Aaron leaves, he shakes their hands. “I’ll see you next week to start the paperwork.”
The door jingles shut behind him.
A silence settles over the table. Mā reaches for the plates, but Bà places a hand on hers. “Leave it. Sit.”
She does, folding her hands in her lap.
Bà turns to me, his expression calm but pointed. “Are you sure you’re okay about all this, Callum?”
I nod, though my chest aches. “I know what this place means. What it gave us. But perhaps it’s time.”
Mā’s hand rests on mine as she squeezes. “This restaurant gave us everything,” she says, slipping into Mandarin. “But you’ve given us more. You are our greatest achievement.”
Her words strike deeper than I expect, and I blink hard.
“It’s a new adventure,” she continues with a softness creeping into her tone.
I nod again. “I didn’t know how much I needed to leave Sydney until I got to Townsville. It’s not just the place—it’s the people.”
Bà raises a brow. “Jordie.”
“She makes me better,” I say quietly. “She challenges me. Centers me. And she makes me happy.”
“When you called that night,” Bà says, hand resting on the table, “I could hear the fear in your voice. That told me enough.”
Mā’s voice is gentle. “We knew then how much she meant to you.”
Bà nods. “This isn’t easy for us—letting go of this place. But seeing the man you’ve become? Knowing we’ll be close to you? It makes the goodbye worth it.”
I pause. “I know this isn’t what you imagined. And if Jordie and I were to be together . . . we might not be able to give you—”
“Hán Wěi ,” Mā cuts in firmly. “You are enough. With or without children. This life you’re building makes us proud.”
Bà echoes her with a nod. “All we’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy. And with her, you are.”
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. “There’s something else.”
Their gazes lift in unison.
“I’ve been thinking about how to thank you—for everything. So I booked you a trip. Two tickets to China.” I pull the envelope from my bag and place it on the table. “Flights. Hotels. Transport. Even the noodle shop near Grandma’s old street. All sorted. All you have to do is show up.”
Mā’s hand flies to her mouth. Bà reaches for the envelope like it’s something sacred.
“You’ll have months,” I say. “To rest. To explore. To visit the places that matter. You’ve given so much. You deserve to just . . . be.”
Tears shimmer in Mā’s eyes. Bà holds the envelope close, his lips pressed tight with emotion.
“I also—” I clear my throat, offering a small smile “—have one last surprise.”
Their heads lift again.
“Leith’s holding a lease on a small shopfront by the beach in Townsville.
I already sent him the paperwork yesterday.
No pressure. No cost. But if you ever get restless or just want something to do with your hands, it’s yours.
Make dumplings two days a week, host cooking demos, or just store your mahjong set there. Whatever you want.”
A beat of silence. Then Bà laughs softly.
“I remember teaching you to fold dumplings at that counter,” he says. “Now you’re offering us a space to do it again, just for joy.”
Mā’s voice is thick with emotion. “Hán Wěi, you’ve thought of everything.”
“You honor us, Callum,” Bà says quietly, the words falling like a blessing. “In every way that matters.”
The weight of the night lingers, but something in me lifts. The restaurant may soon belong to someone else, but our story, our love, our legacy will follow us wherever we go. After all, home isn’t a place. It’s the people you take with you.
For the first time, leaving doesn’t feel like an end.
It feels like coming home.