“Stop,” I said quietly. Then again, louder: “Please stop.” They all turned to look at me.

And, without thinking, I embarrassingly but sincerely launched into this:

“My name is Drew Chan, I’m the son of Taiwanese immigrants, I love Chinese culture but I am also bitter because I blame it—maybe a little unfairly—for why my parents decided to disown me when I pursued art. I turned to being a rental boyfriend because it offered me the opportunity to be paid, with benefits, while I helped others in familiar, heartbreaking situations. I don’t regret my decisions, but I do hate how everything turned out with my family, and even though it hurts, I’m still hopeful for a reunion with my parents, though I don’t think it’ll happen until I have some success as an artist, which is terrible that it has to be that way, but I think that’s what my parents need. I’m trying to be patient. I’m very sorry to you both for how this all started, but I’m also not sorry, because it brought me to your daughter, who you named perfectly, because to me she’s the sun and moon and stars. Also, I’m a cheesy romantic, but it only started when she came into my life. Nice to meet you, Wang Ǎyí, Shǔshú. Thank you for having me in your lovely home; the food looks fantastic.”

Dead. Ass. Silence.

Then a year—I mean, ten seconds—later, her mother pushed back from the table.

“I’m sorry, I can’t do this,” she said, her eyes downcast.

Shit. Had my speech been too much? I pressed my lips together, vowing not to talk anymore.

“Please, Mǎmá,” Chloe begged with her words and her expression.

Mrs. Wang shook her head. “Jing-Jing, I can’t. I need some time. I don’t know this girl in front of me who lied about so many things. My heart is broken.”

And Chloe fell apart. I waffled between wanting to pick up her pieces and wanting to let them work this out without me here. Ultimately, I decided to fade into the background for now, keeping track of where each piece landed so I could hand them back to her when this was over.

Chloe

“I don’t know how to make it so we can both be happy at the same time,” I exclaimed to my parents, the tears pooling. “Half of me wants to beg you for forgiveness so we can move on, and the other half is just so angry and exasperated and tired.”

“Maybe…” My father swallowed. “Maybe I know what that’s like.”

My mother turned and glared at him.

“Jing-Jing, I still think it was the right decision to keep my diagnosis from you. But I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The tears flowed down my face. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, either.”