“But you’re both still hurt,” my mother said harshly. “As am I.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered for what felt like the thousandth time.

“I’m… I wish things had gone differently, Jing-Jing, I really do,” my father said. He cleared his throat. “I… I don’t know how to talk to you. I don’t know how to do better.”

I wiped my cheek. “That… is already doing better.”

He couldn’t look at me as he said, “Dr. Lin told me a couple of weeks ago that you knew I was sick.”

That explained why he hadn’t been more shocked when I’d brought it up yesterday. “Were you going to talk to me about it this weekend?”

He hesitated. “I didn’t know how to bring it up.”

That was so upsetting I had to sit and bite my lip for a second while my insides roiled. I knew it was a step forward that he was telling me this now, when he didn’t have to, but still…

Then he said two unexpected words: “I’m sorry.”

I released my lip from my teeth and looked at him.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.

I was still processing, trying to move past the hurt so we could take a step forward together, but before I could get there, my mother stood.

“I’ve lost my appetite,” she said, then left.

“You should go after her,” my father said quietly. Then, tenderly, he told me, “I’ll be here when you get back.”

I only managed a nod.

Before I’d even entered her bedroom, I heard my mother say through the half-open door, “I think you should break up with him.”

“Why?” I pushed past the nerves and into the room to see her lying in bed, a forearm over her eyes. I sat on the empty half, near her head.

“Jing-Jing, you gave up a wealthy, respected suitor who would’ve provided for your entire life. And for what? A struggling artist estranged from his low-class family! And you live in different states, lǎo tiān yé! How do you expect to make this work?”

“I don’t know yet,” I answered honestly. “I just know I care about him and I want to try. Is that so terrible? I’m nineteen and I just want to continue dating my boyfriend.”

She didn’t move a muscle.

I took a breath. “Mǎmá, I’m not… myself with you. But I’m working on it. I want to show you the real me.”

She removed her arm, finally looking at me. “Then who was the girl I loved and laughed with?”

I tried not to fall apart at the past tense. “That was me too.”

She sat up, frustrated. “Then what are you saying?”