“Cham, don’t joke about this,” my mom starts.

“I don’t want to think about it yet, okay?” I fold my napkin into a deranged bird that has to sit on my lap because it can’t fly away. “There are so many other things to think about, like prom and Senior Volunteer Trip and—”

“Speaking of Senior Volunteer Trip, don’t you have papers for us to sign?” my mom asks. “And have you been paying attention during the assemblies? I know you’re excited to be in another country with your friends, but there’s a lot of preparation involved. You need to contact your host family and—”

“I still think it’s too dangerous,” my dad says, and I realize I should abort this mission. I pick up my spoon and ignore the chin zit reflected in its imperfect mirror.

“That smells delicious, Mom,” I say loudly as she comes over with the pot.

“What is it?” my dad asks, looking down into his bowl as she fills it. His voice has that edge to it, and I know my mom senses it.

“Split pea,” she says carefully. “I think you’ll like—”

“Mom, can you pass the salad?” I interrupt, pointing to the big glass bowl of spring mix. “And the balsamic?”

My dad looks at the table. “It’s right in front of me,” he says. “I’ll do it.”

“That’s okay,” my mom says quickly, knocking the salt-shaker over. “I’ve got it.” She reaches over my dad. Her sleeve is precariously close to the candle, with its orangey-yellow fire tongue.

“Judy,” he says sharply. He turns to her in his wheelchair, and the napkin tucked into his shirt falls to his lap. “You don’t let me do anything.” His eyes flash like they used to when he’d catch me sneaking out of bed at night. The anger would pass quickly, and he’d let me watch TV with him, or he’d tuck me back in with his big yellow flashlight. I wish the monsters I have now were more like the ones that dissolved in his light. “You don’t let me do anything at all,” he repeats.

“What?” My mom pauses with the salad bowl in her hands. “Of course I let you do things.”

“Then let me have it.”

He reaches his hands out and looks down at them as if he’s just noticed how they shake. It’s not a caffeine shake or a muscle-exhaustion shake; it’s a violent trembling by a brain with no regard for how a hand needs to function. He continues to stare at them, and I wonder what he’s telling his brain to get them to steady themselves. I wonder if he sounds angry or sad or patient.

“I’m already holding it,” my mom is saying. “I’ll just give it to Cham myself, since I’m here.”

“No,” my dad says firmly.

“You know what,” I pipe up, reaching for the bread basket placed neutrally to my left. “I don’t really want salad. Spring mix is kind of a hoax. No offense, Mom.”