My father reached for the soup dumplings, but a shaky hand knocked over his tiny dish of black vinegar. All three of us hurried to help, and instead of sitting back and enjoying his position as the head of the household, my father leaned down too, his face flushed with embarrassment. In the process, his shirt rode up, revealing a deep purple bruise on his lower back in the shape of a perfect circle.

“Bā,” I said, alarmed. “Are you okay? How’d you get that bruise?” I wanted to reach out and pull his shirt aside for a better look, but I obviously didn’t.

My father groaned as he sat back up. “It’s nothing.” He hastily yanked his shirt down, unintentionally exposing a matching bruise on his upper back, just below his neck.

“Oh my God!” This time I did reach out, but he pulled away.

My mother stood, leaving Andrew to finish wiping up the mess on the floor. “Aiyah, Jing-Jing, it’s just cupping. How do you know so little about your own culture?” The problem wasn’t how much I knew—it was that my opinion on it differed from hers.

“Bǎbá’s never done that before.” And he’s acting so shady right now. Case in point, he turned back to the table, ignoring all of us and uncharacteristically straightening the plate and chopsticks in front of him.

My mother tsked. “What, so he can never do it just because he’s never done it before?”

“Are you feeling okay?” I asked him, because that was the only thing I could think of. He had never been opposed to the practice, but he hadn’t been a patient before, and had even previously laughed with me when I’d made jokes comparing it to bloodletting—which, coincidentally, had been done together with cupping once upon a time. “You know there’s no scientific evidence that it does any good but there is evidence of negative side effects, right?”

My father sighed. “Please, Jing-Jing. Can we have a nice meal before you leave tomorrow and for once not make it about the latest study you’ve read?”

“Yes, and respect your culture a little more,” my mother added with a sniff.

Since that argument never ended in my favor, my mother’s comment shut me up and put me back in my seat.

By now the floor was clean—thanks to Andrew, which neither of my parents acknowledged—and we were all back at the table, a vinegar-scented discomfort enveloping us.

“Thank you for hosting me these few days,” Andrew said in an attempt to dispel the heavy air. “It’s been such a pleasure, Wang Ǎyí, Shǔshú, and you’ve been much too kind to me. Such gracious hosts.”

“Aiyah, Andrew, it was our pleasure,” my mother said, blushing. Blushing! Her! “So you will join us for Christmas, right?”