Once upon a time, she and the man now in the driver's seat had been like those couples outside the window—huddled together on a motorbike, pushing through the cold, heading for the same wet market.
It wasn't that she had anything against supermarkets, with their neat displays and better-looking produce, nor that the slightly lower prices meant anything to her. What she missed was that particular noise and bustle, the market's raw, lived-in energy. It took her back to the years when they'd had almost nothing, and hadn't thought twice about sharing what little there was.
She had been the one who once agonised over a few cents at the vegetable stall, who had sweetened her voice to coax fifty fen off a kilo of apples, who walked the entire market twice over just to find the freshest fish for a pot of soup. He, in turn, had learned what was in season and what wasn't, how to tell fresh meat from old, how to pick vegetables free of pesticides. For the girl she'd been before twenty—the one who'd grown up with everything done for her—none of this had ever seemed like a life she'd live.
Walking through the market now, the produce assembled itself in her mind into a proper dinner:
Crisp celery tossed with marinated beef over high heat—fragrant and searing.
Chicken and potato slow-cooked in curry and coconut milk, a faint Southeast Asian warmth.
Sea bass from the brackish estuary, fattest at this time of year, steamed until the flesh came apart in clean flakes.
October hairy crabs, heavy with roe, steamed from cold water to seal in the sweetness and keep every leg in place.
Post-harvest choy sum, sweetened by the autumn winds, needing nothing more than salted boiling water to bring out their sweetness.
South China Sea squid, flash-cooked, served with soy and mustard—made for a glass of something cold.
Hakka glutinous rice balls steeped in wine lees, finished with osmanthus honey—the sweet note that closed every meal properly.
And the soup, which mattered most of all.
She used to rely on those ready-made herb packets from the supermarket. Now she went to the dry goods shop herself and chose the ingredients by hand, matching them to the season and to whoever was at the table.
When had she last had a day like this? All she had to do was talk the vendors down on price, while behind her, someone else carried everything and settled the bill. Every inch the queen making her rounds, flanked by two reasonably good-looking men—one a composed, quietly attractive older man, the other a bright-faced boy with easy charm. The combination turned heads all the way through, housewives pausing mid-errand to look twice. Add a pair of sunglasses and the whole thing would have been red-carpet ready.
They came home loaded. The kitchen immediately became a different kind of battlefield.
Both men were practically parched by the time they got through the door, so she started a pot of pork rib and herb broth first—cooling and restorative. Nobody knew how demanding her mother's palate was better than her own daughter: if the soup hadn't been going for at least two hours, it had no business on the table.
As for her cooking—it used to baffle her, this talent she hadn't asked for and couldn't quite explain. Then she remembered something her mother had always said: the ones who really know how to eat will always know how to cook.
He went to collect her mother at five, while Si Chen was still in the kitchen. By rights, her mother should have walked straight in and started cataloguing everything that was wrong—the state of the flat, the arrangement of the furniture, all of it leading to the same conclusion: that Si Chen had failed as mistress of the house. Instead she was remarkably composed, chatting warmly with him, letting Si Yuan coax her into laughter with his usual tricks.
She knew how much these two could eat. But did they have to eat as though they hadn't had a proper meal in half a lifetime? The table—six dishes, one soup, one dessert, generously portioned—was gone in what felt like minutes.
Her mother set her chopsticks down slowly and sighed. Si Chen's stomach dropped. Nothing good had ever followed that sigh.
Sure enough, there was no warm-up. She went straight in.
"What kind of household are you running? everyone eating like they've just crawled out of a famine! Si Yuan's still growing—how is he supposed to get tall with no proper nourishment? Yu Hao works himself half to death, smokes and drinks, and can't even get a decent bowl of soup. And you—you disappeared for over a year! France, Germany, Japan—have I left anywhere out?"
"Singapore! Malaysia! Thailand!" Si Yuan threw in helpfully, hand half-raised like a student with the answer.
"You think you're still single? Just pack up and go whenever the mood strikes? Look at yourself—all skin and bones, yellow in the face, looking half like a ghost. And you're still talking about going off again?"
She'd clearly been saving it up. The relief on her face when she'd finished was visible.
"India!" Si Yuan added, as though completing a geography quiz.
You little troublemaker, Si Chen thought. Stop adding fuel. I've never treated you badly.
Her mother was drawing breath for the next round—"How long this time, you—"
"Mum." Yu Hao's voice came in, calm and well-timed. "A friend from Guangxi brought me a bottle of medicinal wine—supposed to be good for the blood. Chen, would you grab it and pour Mum a glass to try?"
Smooth. Well-timed. The fire redirected before it could catch. He knew exactly what he was doing. Still—Mum, your daughter can only take so much. Two more sentences and I would have broken down.
The storm blew itself out. The rest of the evening passed without further incident, more or less.
She had clearly come looking for trouble. She hadn't even brought a change of clothes—just announced, as though it were already decided, that she was staying the night.
Si Chen had been quietly planning to hand Yu Hao a pillow and redirect him to the study. That plan was now unthinkable. Instead she picked up her own pillow and went to squeeze into her mother's bed, claiming she'd been missing her mother and wanted a lullaby to fall asleep to. A flimsy excuse—but no one pushed back on it.
It was a mistake. She knew it almost immediately. Her mother had barely finished with her at the dinner table before starting up again the moment they were lying down—this time without the performance, and straight from the heart.
"You got through the hard years together. And now that things are easier, you still haven't found peace. Once you've made up your mind, there's no moving you—I know that. But think about it: after all this time, what more do you want from him? He's already giving way to you at every turn?"
"It's not only me," Si Chen muttered. "I have my grievances too."
Her mother sighed, voice quieter now. "You know how much pride that man has. He's already bending over backwards for you—more than you give him credit for. Know when to stop, while things are still good."
He never could have expected her to come back with a pillow. If he had, he wouldn't still be standing at the window with a glass in his hand, brow furrowed. When she appeared in the doorway, he startled visibly, set the glass down quickly, and crossed the room to meet her.
"What happened?"
She didn't know where to start. The feeling she'd been holding back all day broke through at once, and the tears came before she could stop them. He took the pillow from her, drew her in, and held her, one hand patting her back in slow, steady strokes, letting her cry quietly.
After a long while, she managed something coherent: "My mum doesn't want me anymore."
"That couldn't be further from the truth."
"She said I'm water that's already been poured out. She doesn't want to take it back."
What could he say to that? He did what he could—held her close, kept his voice low.
"That's not true. It's all right. Just rest. Just sleep."
They lay down in the quiet. Her back against his chest, his breathing slow and warm behind her, steadying her by degrees. She didn't turn over. She knew what would happen if she did—those eyes, and everything in them. She wasn't ready for that yet.
Her mother's words were still with her:
"A year ago I was going to call you back myself. Do you know what he said? 'Mum, it's her dream. I won't stand in the way.'"
She understood perfectly why her mother had shown up today with all her noise and her overnight bag and her lectures.
It all came down to one thing:
If this all came apart—who else in the world would put up with her wilfulness?