“Do you get to have the mother tea because you’re the mother?” I joked. She looked at me blankly, so I explained, “The mother tea, the one that eventually becomes the bitter one you leave on the counter to make mine with.”

She shook her head. “Of course I make you your own. No need to share germs.”

“I was making a joke, calling it the mother tea because it births the teas I drink. You know, like how sourdough is made from a mother dough that has spores growing in it.”

She made a disgusted face. “Yuck, who would want to eat spores?”

“What do you think stinky tofu is?”

She laughed, loud and hearty, and the sound cracked a smile across my face. “Okay, you got me, Jing-Jing. I was being hip—hippo—”

“Hypocritical,” I supplied.

“Yes, that, by judging what’s not familiar to me, just like what the Americans always do with our best things.”

My smile extended to my eyes.

“You know,” she said, “sometimes I forget how lucky I am.”

I held my breath, but it wasn’t about me.

“Bǎbá and I have been lucky to find this community, to live in America and hold on to our culture. It’s a luxury. Maybe… maybe I haven’t always thought about what it must be like for you, being in that environment but also growing up in America. It can’t be easy.”

My mouth filled with saliva from… nervousness? Anticipation? Whatever it was, I swallowed and kept waiting for more.

But then she said, “Jing-Jing, my parents never talked to me about the sex, so I didn’t talk to you about it, but maybe we should.”

The alarms in my head went off like there was a fire and tornado and flood around the corner.

“The sex is when a man puts his penis—”

“Oh my God!” I yelled. “I know that! Can we not?”

My mother grabbed my forearm before I could cover my ears. “Jing-Jing, listen to me. I’ve seen a few of those—what are they called? Sitcoms. They say this is important. That I need to talk to you about these things, even if it makes me uncomfortable.”

Every wish I’d sent up to the heavens for more sitcom-like parents came back and bit me in the ass at the same time. I take it back!

“There’s a reason Christians like us believe it’s an act for marriage,” my mother continued. “It’s very emotional, and it should be saved for your husband.”

“I know all this.” Whatever to make it stop, even if I didn’t agree with her. My head was in my hands.