Emily comes over and hands me a box of tissues.
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
“No problem. We’re here for you, aren’t we? We got each other’s backs.”
Another typical phrase from my brother. He used to say it when we were kids, and he also said it to me when our parents kicked me out. He said it again when he came to bail me out of jail, and he repeated it when he took me to rehab.
I’m sure it was something he used to say at home, in the family, whenever there was a problem or something happened to one of them.
Those children had the best father in the world. I can never be like him, not even close, but I can try hard. After all, Mark raised me, too. I hope I’ve learnt something from him, something good to pass on to his children if they don’t take them away from me.
* * *
THE KIDS APPRECIATE my baked pasta.
“Can I have some more?” Mason asks, his plate almost empty.
“Of course you can.”
He’s the most voracious of the three. It must be the sport or the growth. After all, he’s a teenager and… Oh my God, puberty? Are we there yet? I don’t think I can handle it.
I don’t have any great memories of those years; in fact, if I could erase them from my mind forever, it would be perfect.
“Shall we leave a plate for Mr Yang?” Emily asks with her usual gentleness.
“We can, although I don’t think he loves my cooking.”
“I like it,” Emily states with conviction.
“Do you think I can do the cooking?” I ask for confirmation.
“It’s food, fuel for the mind,” Logan says.
Mason shoves a huge forkful of pasta into his mouth, then says with his mouth full, “Just give me strength.”
“I get it. I suck at this too.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Emily tries to comfort me.
“You’re doing the best you can,” Mason says.
“When did you grow up so much? You are so mature for your age.”
Mason looks at his siblings, then shrugs.
“You are all your father,” I say, on the verge of emotion.
Mason smiles. “Yes?"
“Spit. You look so much like him... Sometimes, I look at you and feel like a child again; I feel like I still have him next to me.”
“And that makes you sad?”
“Melancholic.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I love being melancholic, you know that, right? And I love you, I love having you around.”
