Chapter 2

“Nothing’s wrong,” I muttered. “Let’s eat.” Aunt May served the dishes: Kung Pao chicken, the pork hock soup, stir-fried mushrooms, and sweet and sour fish.

“Wow, it all looks amazing! I’ll just go wash my hands,” Henry said, giving me a quick peck on the cheek before heading to the bathroom. He had no idea I’d already eaten. I sat at the table, looking at the fresh dishes and feeling annoyed again. “Aunt May, why did you make new dishes? Where are my leftovers?”

She chuckled nervously. “Oh, I… I ate them.” Just then, Henry emerged from the bathroom.

“Aunt May, you don’t have to eat leftovers,” he said. “From now on, just join us.”

“Oh, no, that wouldn’t be right.” Aunt May glanced at me and then back at Henry.

“There’s nothing wrong with it; join us.” Henry smiled, oblivious to my annoyance. I put down my chopsticks and, in a low voice, asked, “Henry Graham, what do you mean by that?”

Aunt May quickly ducked back into the kitchen, saying, “I’ll just go wash the dishes.”

She shut the kitchen door behind her, avoiding eye contact. Henry looked at me, bewildered, then picked up a piece of fish and put it on my plate. “Honey, what’s got you mad? Whatever it is, I’ll fix it.”

That’s my husband for you—always clueless as to why I’m upset and incapable of reflecting on his own. I’m usually straightforward, so I said, “When did I ever tell Aunt May to eat leftovers?”

When Aunt May cooks, she takes a small portion out for herself and eats at a little table in the kitchen. That’s her space, so why would she suddenly be eating the food I’d set aside for Henry? The plan was for her to heat it up for him when he got home.

“My mistake, totally my mistake,” Henry said, tapping his lips with his hand. “Honey, you’re pregnant; don’t get upset.” Staring at the spread on the table, I’d lost my appetite entirely. “And why did you invite Aunt May to eat with us? What were you thinking?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

In my opinion, it’s best to maintain some boundaries; getting too close just makes things awkward. My cousin learned that the hard way when she got overly friendly with her housekeeper, only to have the woman refuse to leave when she was let go. She even accused my cousin of being ungrateful for not remembering all the care she’d given her during her postpartum recovery, forgetting that she’d been hired for that very job.

Henry put down his chopsticks and raised his voice, clearly agitated. “What was I thinking? Aunt May is busy taking care of you; why can’t she eat with us?”

“Henry Graham, you’re a jerk!” I shoved his shoulder, stormed off to our bedroom, and locked the door. He knocked, pleading, “Honey, come on. Open the door; I’m sorry, alright?”

I sighed. When I’d married him, my parents disapproved, said he wasn’t stable enough, and didn’t trust him since he was from out of state. But I’d insisted. Though they’d come around, Henry always carried a chip on his shoulder, thinking my family looked down on him. In his eyes, me not wanting Aunt May at the table was a sign I was looking down on her, the same way he thought my parents looked down on him.

By 10 p.m., he was back at the door, apologizing again, “Honey, open up. I really am sorry.”

I grabbed his pillow and blanket, opened the door, and handed them to him. “You’re sleeping on the couch tonight,” I said flatly. My mood was so sour; I just wanted to be alone.

He took the pillow and blanket, nodding. “Alright, but make sure you close the window tonight, so you don’t catch a chill.” I nodded, shutting the door behind him.

As I lay in bed, my mind wandered. If I’d been born into the same circumstances as Henry, would I have ended up sensitive and insecure like him? His mother left him when he was six, his dad was always working, and his grandma was the one who raised him. But he’d pulled himself up, put himself through college, and within three years of graduation, he’d made supervisor at a major tech firm.

It’s no good letting him sleep on the couch. He has to work tomorrow. I glanced at the clock: 1 a.m. I got out of bed, opened the door, and turned on the living room light—only to see Aunt May sleeping on the couch, wrapped up in Henry’s blanket. My hands clenched into fists. “Henry Graham, where are you?”

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