If my husband hadn't been craving the hand-pulled noodles only I could make, I never would have set foot in that kitchen.
Such a simple request. And in my daughter-in-law's eyes, it was an unbearable imposition.
"Mom, are you even listening? You're getting older. You need to respect boundaries."
Boundaries. That word again.
Three years of marriage, and he had never once come home to celebrate New Year's with us.
All in the name of those precious boundaries.
I looked at this son I had raised for twenty-seven years.
When I bought him a house, bought him a car, wired him money every month for living expenses, pulled strings to get jobs for both him and his wife—did he ever once think about boundaries then?
The elevator chimed and the doors slid open.
My son followed me in, radiating impatience with every step.
"Mom, did you hear me? Don't come to the house anymore. Yvonne doesn't like it."
I stared at this son of mine, a man whose entire world revolved around his wife. Just because his wife said she didn't like it, he was ready to cast me and his father aside like we were nothing.
"Fine."
That was all I could manage. My heart had gone cold.
"Come on, I'll drive you to the hospital."