a point to do her readings in the morning and evening in front of me.
The meter beeps and she turns it to me. “See? One hundred and seven. I had a snack a little while ago, so that’s pretty good.”
I pat her arm and smile at her. “That’s good, Mom. But you don’t always have to do it in front of me. I trust you.”
She glances up at me. “I know you do, but I want to show you that I’m not hiding anything. I’m taking care of myself. I feel good, I feel healthy, but I promise I will tell you if I’m feeling bad again.”
I slip my arm around her and pull her into a side hug. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
Her openness brings a much-needed level of comfort to our relationship. It means she’s working hard to repair the rift caused by her keeping her health status a secret. Each day I rein in my control freak tendencies when it comes to her health. There’s no need for me to micromanage now that we’re approaching each other with this new level of honesty.
But still, bits and pieces of our conversation from that night in the hospital float to the present, weighing on me like a cinder block.
You moved here for me. You gave up your job, your friends, your life in Oregon, your dreams to help me. I feel like such a burden on you sometimes.
She’s being open with me about what she’s going through. Now I need to be open with her.
I glance at her as she speedily puts away the kit. She starts to stand up from the stool, but my hand on her forearm stills her.
“Stay sitting for just one more sec, okay?”
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
I sigh, then look her straight in the eyes. “Nothing. I just need you to know something. You didn’t ruin my life. When Dad got sick, I moved here without thinking twice about it. I moved here because I wanted to be with him and you. I won’t lie; it was hard leaving my job and friends behind. But it was worth it. I wanted to be where you and Dad were. And that’s true even now. I don’t want to be anywhere else. I want to stay here with you, okay? Never doubt that.”
Her eyes glisten under the bright lighting of the overhead fixture.
I squeeze her hand. “I mean it, Mom. I may not have envisioned my life to turn out like this, but I wouldn’t want it any other way, okay?”
She pulls me into a hug so tight, I can barely eke out a breath.
When she finally releases me, she wipes away the tears from her face, smiling.
“Stop feeling bad,” I say. “I need you to be your chipper self when you come back to the food truck tomorrow and at the Maui Food Festival this weekend.”
She beams, hopping up from the stool. “Oh, anak! I can’t wait. I’ve missed seeing the customers and spending all day cooking by the beach, smelling that salt air, hearing the waves crash right next to us. And the festival! I’ve been putting some finishing touches on the new fruit salad recipe I came up with. Here, let me show you.”
She mentions something about adding sprigs of mint just as my phone beeps with a text message. My heart jumps to my throat when I see it’s Callum.
Hi. Are you all right? How’s your mum? I haven’t heard from you.
This is the first time either one of us has reached out ever since our argument at the hospital. But it’s not like I haven’t thought of him. Every single night I fall asleep to Callum’s gorgeous face, his taste, the memory of his body pressed against mine. The pillow I shove between my legs is a sorry substitute, but it’s all I can manage.
Because to text him or call him would mean we’d have to talk about our argument, and I can’t handle the pain of that.
I stare at his text again. I’m lucky that we’ve been able to maintain our status quo of zero interaction while working side by side every day at the food truck. Whenever we make eye contact, Callum is always the first to look away. But it’s never enough to erase the emotion radiating from him like a bonfire. Sharing the same swath of dirt every day, working in our separate food trucks, just a handful of feet separating us, won’t hold up forever. We