YAO
Soup JINGSHU HELEN YAO
“T
hat’s not how Ma cooks it.” Momo stared at the plate of vegetable stir fry and frowned. “I’m not Ma,” her sister, An, snapped, not looking up from her end of the table. “Quit whining and eat your dinner.” “It tastes like boiled cardboard. So plain,” Momo continued. “Didn’t you put any oil?” “This is how I cook it.” An finally looked up, annoyed. “Too much oil is bad for your health.” “This is disgusting,” Momo said, pushing her bowl away. For a few seconds, they stared at each other across the table and Momo shrank a little into her chair, expecting an outburst from An. “Fine, you don’t have to eat it.” An dropped her gaze and served herself some more vegetables. Momo’s hands tightened around the edge of the table. What’s that even supposed to mean? Is she angry, disappointed, or indifferent? An chewed on the cabbage slowly. Her eyes darted between the table and the kitchen window but never landed on Momo. “Then what do I eat?” Momo asked quietly after another minute of silence. Her eyes followed An’s motion of chewing and swallowing. “I don’t know, figure it out yourself,” An said, still without looking at her. “Don’t you have money?” A sense of relief washed over Momo and she loosened her grip, but at the same time, disappointment welled from the bottom of her mind. She wanted to get a reaction from An. Not necessarily yelling and scolding, but some-
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