Drew looked at me with sympathetic eyes, and I knew he was remembering from my application that my grandparents had died before I was born: one at sea (the fisherman grandpa), two in an automobile accident (my dad’s parents), and one from leukemia (my mom’s mom, right before I was born).

I returned the sympathy and hoped he knew it was for his grandma’s comments about his art, for the estranged grandfather he’d never met for the worst reasons, and, as I had recently learned from his operative application, for the grandparents he lost to lung cancer and heart disease when he was young.

“This is the same grandma who taught you mahjong?” my mother continued, and I knew she was being kind—finally—but for some reason, I was on the edge of my seat. Knowing the truth behind the lies was making me antsy, though for Drew this was just another day.

Stop sweating, I told myself even though, obviously, I had no control over that, not really.

My father hadn’t said a word, and I was trying not to stare at him as if I could somehow see the cancer cells now that I knew they existed.

“Would you have told me Grandma had leukemia if I’d been alive then?” I asked, my eyes on my father as I slowly chewed the steamed fish in my mouth.

But my parents ignored me. My mother tried to change the topic by saying, “Andrew, earlier today I noticed the Christmas-tree ornaments you brought. How kě’ài! Where did you get them?”

“He made them,” I said without missing a beat. “I named the one with antigravity boots Cháng’é.”

Her eyes went wide at my first statement, but even wider at the second.

“Maybe he’s a good influence on you after all,” my mother said, then turned to Drew. “Thanks for reminding my daughter where she comes from. I’m always telling her she needs to embrace her roots more.”

“He is a good influence on me, but not because he reminds me I come from a toxic community that judges how I look, study, breathe.”

“Jing-Jing!” my mother chastised. She cleared her throat, trying to clear my words from the table. “Well, I love that you have a healthy relationship with your culture, Andrew. Using it to inspire your little crafts—how wonderful!”

I was tired of playing my part, and seeing all of them play theirs was making me sick.

“He’s a talented artist,” I said.

Drew placed a hand on my knee under the table, but I ignored it.

My mother smiled at Drew, a little forced. “Well, that’ll serve you well in medicine—or dentistry, perhaps?—if you can get over the germy parts, of course.”

“Or that would serve him well as an artist,” I said with a shrug.