“Jìn lái,” my father’s voice said through the door. And since he used the less polite “come in” rather than “qǐng jìn” for “please enter,” I knew I was in for a salty chat.

“I brought you dinner.” I placed the tray on the empty side of the bed, then sat beside it with care.

“Bā…,” I started, then stopped, not because I was scared of him, but because I was scared to know. “Are you okay? I mean, are you sick? With more than just a cold?”

“I’m not as young as I once was, that’s all,” he said with a smile. But it was hollow. “I just get more run-down than I used to.”

“You can tell me the truth,” I said. “I want to be here for you.”

He held a hand up, silencing me. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. If I say I’m fine, I’m fine.” He took a few sips of soup; then his eyes grew wide when he put everything together. “These are from earlier?” he asked, pointing at the wontons.

I nodded and he chuckled. Hope surged in my chest.

But then he said, “Aiyah, Jing-Jing, what were you thinking, saying that at the party?”

My voice was barely above a whisper. “I wanted to choose my own future.”

“Who wasn’t letting you choose? We were only making sure you saw all your choices.”

“You didn’t tell me vital information.” I left it at that. Unlike with my mother, I couldn’t fully express my anger. My relationship with my father was too uncomfortable. Too fragile.

And he didn’t pick up on the emotions beneath my words, saying carelessly, “We did what we felt was necessary for you to end up with the best option. We know more than you, Jing-Jing. We’re older. We have life experiences. Haven’t we taught you to respect your elders?”

Sometimes it felt like talking to a skipping record—outdated, repetitive, and unable to change. I tried the same tactic that had worked on my mother. “Well, the Hongbo ship has sailed. Can you give Andrew a chance now?”

But my father shook his head. “I can’t reward your terrible behavior by giving you what you want.”

“So, what, you’re not going to be nice to your own houseguest?”

“He’s not who he says he is.”

No way. He couldn’t know… could he?

“He’s squeamish!” my father exclaimed, as if he were dropping the mic. “He’s not going into medicine like his parents—he’s going to have to find something else. He could barely keep his breakfast down when he was assisting me.”

I wanted to laugh until my knees gave out. But I managed to hold it back to just a few chortles.

“What’s so funny?” my dad finally asked after chortle number five.