Chapter 2: Family Ties That Bind

After the meeting, it was already evening. I followed the boss and a few colleagues to the hotel to check in.

The city lights were coming on outside, the lobby bustling with travelers and business types. I felt wrung out, but the promise of a quiet room sounded like heaven.

The boss looked like he wanted to say something, then asked if I wanted to take the last Amtrak home. When I got off the elevator, I checked my phone—there were still two hours before the last train.

I did the mental math, weighing the risk of more calls from my mom against the demands of work. In the end, duty won out—again.

But for this kind of project meeting, after the first day, there are usually more discussions the next day. I'm the main lead—if I'm not there, I'll be at a disadvantage.

I pictured my empty seat at the table and knew I couldn't leave.

I said I wouldn't go back. Most likely, there'd be more meetings tomorrow.

I tried to sound decisive, but exhaustion crept in at the edges of my words.

The boss nodded. "Natalie, I don't want to get another call from your mom unless it's urgent. And I have no idea why you shared my number with your family."

His tone was stern but not unkind, his eyebrows drawn together in mild concern.

I said I didn't know, but then I thought, maybe she found my boss's business card in my pocket.

I made a mental note to never leave business cards at home again.

"Let's eat something simple first, then review today's meeting with the back office and figure out what issues they'll focus on tomorrow."

He steered us toward the restaurant, his businesslike stride leaving no room for argument.

There was a restaurant downstairs at the hotel. Because there were lots of office buildings nearby, the place was full of booths and private rooms. The boss ordered some set meals, I opened my laptop and started a Zoom call, and the technical team back at the company was ready to discuss.

We took over a corner booth, the soft leather seats and warm lights offering a brief comfort. I flipped open my laptop, the familiar blue Zoom logo a small island of routine.

The boss had just spoken a couple of sentences when my phone rang again.

No need to check—I knew it was my mom.

The ringtone was a song she liked, embarrassingly upbeat. I felt everyone glance up.

The boss said, "This is an internal discussion, it's fine. Go answer it over there."

He gestured to a quieter spot by the window, trying to give me some privacy.

I didn't want to answer, but I knew if I didn't, she'd just keep calling.

I took a deep breath, grabbed my phone, and walked a few steps away, out of sight.

"Tyler wants to watch cartoons. How do you change the TV?"

I could hear the TV blaring in the background, my son whining, my mom's voice anxious and sharp.

"Give him the remote, he can find it himself."

I tried to keep my tone calm, but the tension was building.

"How can a kid change the TV? There are so many buttons, I don't understand them. How do you change it?"

She sounded genuinely flustered, her voice growing louder.

My chest was already tight.

I rubbed my forehead, wishing for a break. Just five minutes of silence.

"He can do it. He found cartoons by himself last year. Just give him the remote."

I tried to remind her of last time, hoping she'd remember.

"He can't do it. Tell me how to change it, I'll do it for him."

I exhaled, willing myself not to snap.

"Give him the phone."

I could already hear my son shouting nearby: "I can do it myself! Give me the remote!"

His voice rang clear, filled with eight-year-old indignation.

My mom told him, "Don't shout. How could you know how? What if you break it? Grandma can't fix it."

She was getting flustered, the way she always did when technology was involved.

I forced myself to say, "Give him the phone."

My mom reluctantly handed the phone to my son, who immediately said loudly, "I want to watch cartoons. Grandma just won't give me the remote!"

I imagined his pout, his fists clenched at his sides, the injustice of it all written across his face.

"Sweetie, grandma doesn't know you can do it. Tell her how to change it."

My son said loudly, "First press power, then right, move to the kids' cartoon channel, it's the third one."

His confidence was almost comical, like a miniature teacher explaining the obvious.

I said, "Mom, did you hear? Tyler can find cartoons himself. Don't worry, just give him the remote."

I tried to keep my tone light, but I was exhausted.

"Is what he said right? I don't think so. How could a kid use the remote? I can't even use it. Better not watch—I'll take him out for a walk."

Her voice wavered, a mixture of pride and worry, as if walking outside would solve everything.

My son was about to cry when he heard that.

I imagined his lower lip trembling, eyes wide, heartbroken over the lost cartoons.

I said, "Why not just try what he said and see if it works? Can't you just try? If you never try, you'll never know."

I tried to inject some patience into my voice, pleading for her to give in.

My mom paused, then started complaining, "I can't change the TV. I'm old and useless. I'm dragging you all down. Just let him do whatever, I can't take care of your son."

Her voice dropped to that familiar wounded tone, the one that always made me feel both guilty and angry.

My head was about to explode, but I couldn't hang up, and I couldn't not hang up.

I stared at the wall, mouth set in a tight line, wishing someone would just invent a universal remote for family drama.

On the other end, the cartoon theme song started playing, and my son shouted, "See? Found it! Grandma is so dumb."

His relief was palpable, even through the phone. I almost smiled.

I said, "Mom, from now on, let him find whatever he wants to watch by himself. I'm still in a meeting, please don't call me again."

My voice was low, tired, but firm.

My mom hung up.

The click was abrupt, but oddly satisfying.

Back at the booth, the boss was arguing fiercely with the back office.

Voices rose and fell, hands gestured, the back office team flickering in and out of frame on my laptop. I slipped back into my seat, grateful for the noise to drown out my thoughts.

His name is Carter Wu, a second-generation American who started a business in the U.S. with his father's inheritance. He's always arguing with the tech department because of the different ways of doing things in the States and abroad.

He wore his success with a casual confidence, sleeves rolled up, always the youngest at the table but with the air of someone who'd already seen too much. His accent slid between West Coast and something slightly foreign—just enough to make him interesting.

He's young, but insists on being called Mr. Carter. He says people don't trust young people in business, so being called 'Mr.' makes him sound wise.

It was a running joke in the office, but we all respected it—he earned it, after all. Besides, it worked. Clients listened when he spoke.

I'm divorced, single, raising a kid, and honestly, I'm grateful he hired me as a technical mainstay.

Sometimes I wonder if he sees a bit of himself in me—both of us balancing cultures, both just trying to keep our families afloat.

I had just sat down when a video request popped up on my computer.

The notification ping was loud in the quiet booth. I stared in disbelief. I knew that icon: a video call from Mom.

From my mom.

My finger hovered over the mouse. I was torn between fury and resignation.

The computer was mine, I was in an online meeting, and the ding-dong ding-dong sound interrupted Carter's speech. The back office fell silent.

I could feel all eyes on me, digital and physical, as I scrambled to reject the call.

I clicked reject.

My heart hammered in my chest. I exhaled, embarrassed, hoping no one would mention it.

Not five seconds later, she called again.

Relentless. I gritted my teeth, determined not to give in.

I was shaking with anger, and of all times, I accidentally clicked accept.

My screen flashed to life, and suddenly my mom's face filled the camera, my son perched next to her, both of them too close, their faces huge on my laptop.

My mom leaned close to my son, pushing her head toward his, grinning and saying, "Baby, look who this is? It's mom, call mom!"

She cooed, her voice syrupy sweet, as if I were five, not thirty-six. My son squirmed, clearly annoyed.

My son is already eight, and as soon as he started watching cartoons my mom squeezed up to him. He looked so impatient.

He shot me a pleading look through the screen, as if asking for rescue.

I couldn't care about my colleagues watching and shouted, "Mom, Tyler is already big, he doesn't like you doing this."

I hated how my voice always got small when I talked to her, like I was still a kid screwing up a spelling test. There was a beat of silence as the rawness landed, everyone on the call pausing awkwardly.

My mom wasn't fazed at all, still coaxing my son: "Look, why aren't you looking? Don't you like mom anymore? Mom is waiting for you to look at her. Whose baby is this, so good-looking—is it my baby?"

She pressed her face to the camera, baby-talking, oblivious to the world.

My son glanced at me and forced a smile.

His smile looked more like a grimace. I felt a pang of guilt, wishing I could teleport home and smooth everything over.

"Mom, I just told you I'm in a meeting. Don't call me, don't video call me, why do you keep calling?"

I was trying to keep it together, my nerves frayed raw.

My mom rolled her eyes at me. "This is a video call, not a phone call. So what if you're in a meeting? You forget Tyler when you have meetings? Whose son is he?"

She said it with such exasperation, as if the difference between a video and a phone call was the most obvious thing in the world.

Suddenly my son shouted, "Grandma, my mom is busy! Don't bother her. Our teacher said, don't say or do inappropriate things. If you don't bother my mom for a while, you get anxious."

He folded his arms across his chest, mimicking the teacher's stern look. My colleagues stifled laughter, the tension in the room melting for a moment.

Colleagues all laughed through the wifi: "So cute, little guy!"

The back office crew, even Carter, cracked smiles. I felt myself relax, just a bit.

I was already falling apart from my mom.

It was all I could do not to scream or cry or both.

"Mom, I'll say it one last time. I'm in a meeting. Don't call or video call me anymore. If there's something, send a message. I'll reply when I see it. Don't call anymore, don't call anymore, did you hear me?"

My voice was hoarse, all my energy gone.

There was a long pause. My mom changed her posture, face pressed to the camera, saying, "Why can't I call? Can't you spare a minute no matter how busy? It's so late, what are you even busy with?"

She looked so small, for a moment, on the screen. Her voice was softer now, tinged with something like loneliness.

I gritted my teeth. "Let's not talk now, okay? I'm really busy."

I tried to keep the pleading out of my voice, but it leaked through anyway.

"What's so great? Never seen anyone who'd rather have a meeting than their own son."

Her words hit hard, as always, finding the softest spot and pressing down.

With that, my mom hung up.

I was mortified and apologized to Carter.

My cheeks burned as I closed my laptop, avoiding his eyes. The rest of the team logged off quietly, no one saying a word.

This was my first time going out with him for a major project report, and my mom had managed to mess it up.

I felt the sting of embarrassment, shame curling in my stomach. I had wanted so badly to make a good impression.

As I apologized, I suddenly realized I'd gotten used to my mom's endless friction.

It was a kind of background noise in my life, always there, never changing.

When did it start?

I can't remember—maybe after I got divorced, maybe after I got married, maybe it started the day I was born.

Maybe it's just been there forever, woven into the fabric of my life like an old family recipe you can't forget.

"Let's end here for today. Back office colleagues can log off, thank you." Carter closed his laptop.

He said it with finality, the kind that brooked no argument. I could almost hear everyone else exhale in relief.

Except for work, he's actually pretty easygoing—not that old, but really acts like a seasoned middle-aged man.

He has a way of smoothing over chaos, like a dad at a family reunion, making sure everyone gets a slice of pie.

I thought he'd comfort me, but instead he said, "You need to handle your personal matters. Don't let them affect work, or I'll fire you."

His tone was firm, no nonsense, but not unkind. I respected him more for it, even if it stung.

Yeah, that's fair.

I nodded, swallowing my pride. It was all I could do not to cry.

"But, my mom used to be a bit like your mom. I can talk to you about it."

He said it almost shyly, like he wasn't sure if he was crossing a line.

"Your mom?"

The words tumbled out, surprised. I hoped I hadn't offended him.

Sounds like I'm cursing him.

I backpedaled, raising my hands in apology, but he just laughed.

"My mom moved here with my dad, but she never really fit in. She got real depressed—like, calling my dad two hundred times a day depressed. Even if he answered, she wouldn’t talk, or she’d just say little things, over and over."

His voice was quiet, steady, with the weight of old pain behind it.

"Chicken scratch? You mean making a big deal out of nothing, right?"

I tried to lighten the mood, but he just smiled, tiredly.

"Uh... yeah, making a big deal out of nothing." He blushed. "Even though my dad really loved my mom, anyone would break down in that situation."

He looked down at his hands, lost in thought.

"And then?"

I leaned in, genuinely curious, desperate for hope.

"Then my mom got better."

He smiled, a little wistfully, as if he still didn't quite believe it.

"How did you do it?" I asked, excited.

I couldn't help it—my voice was eager, hope flickering to life.

"My dad said, whenever my mom had an episode, he'd give her a hug. Love cured her."

He shrugged, like it was both the simplest and most impossible thing in the world.

I remembered that.

I tucked the words away, holding them close. Maybe I needed to try a different approach.

I finally got this job. I can't let myself become a housewife again.

I felt resolve settling over me, a quiet determination not to let my mom—or anyone—derail my hard-won place in the world.

The next day's meeting went smoothly, and we returned that evening. By nightfall, I was home.

The city lights had just begun to twinkle as I stepped through the front door, the familiar scent of home wrapping around me like a blanket.

As soon as I walked in, I hugged my mom tight and said gently, "Mom, I love you."

I wrapped my arms around her, feeling her stiffen in surprise. For a moment, we just stood there, the house quiet except for the distant hum of the fridge. I felt tears prick my eyes, but I didn't let go.

I really regret never thinking to do this before, even though my son often hugs me and says he loves me.

All those years of holding back, of waiting for someone else to make the first move—gone in a single embrace.

My mom said, "Did you get the backpack back?"

Her voice was soft, the edge of worry still there, but something else too—a question, maybe, or hope.

"Got it. I said it's fine to be a day late."

I smiled, squeezing her hand. I meant it—this time, it really was okay.

"Come eat."

She nodded toward the kitchen, her tone gentler than usual.

I put down my bag, washed my hands, and sat at the table.

The kitchen was bright, the table groaning under the weight of dishes. The smell of roast turkey, meatloaf, mac and cheese, sautéed kale, coleslaw, and a pot of mushroom soup sprinkled with cilantro filled the air. My stomach rumbled, reminding me I hadn't eaten since breakfast.

This feast stunned me, and out of the corner of my eye I saw my son looking at me expectantly.

He fiddled with his napkin, waiting for my verdict.

"Mom, how can we eat these dishes? I told you to make normal chicken, fish, meat, and eggs."

Tyler's voice was small but firm, echoing my own thoughts. He glanced at me, seeking backup.

My mom brought over the mashed potatoes. "Aren't these normal dishes?"

She sounded genuinely puzzled, as if she couldn't see why anyone would object.

"He's only eight, he needs nutrition. You made a table full of salty stuff, organ meats, and coleslaw—how can a child eat that?"

I tried to keep my tone reasonable, not wanting to start another argument.

"Why can't he eat it? These are all delicious! Back in the day, we couldn't even eat these at Thanksgiving."

Her voice rose with pride, nostalgia coloring her words. She pressed a hand to her chest, as if remembering her own childhood.

My son held my hand, pitifully: "It's either salty or bitter. I don't want to eat. I want a hamburger."

His big eyes pleaded with me, the word 'hamburger' like a magic spell.

I said to my mom, "He can't eat these at his age. At least make scrambled eggs with tomatoes, or just buy some chicken nuggets from the store."

I tried to sound gentle, but the frustration leaked through.

My mom slapped her fork on the table, scolding: "It's because you spoil him, always eating fast food and not eating real meals. Meatloaf, turkey, and coleslaw are all homemade—clean and healthy! The rest are freshly made. So picky! If you don't eat, starve! Tyler, come have some soup."

Her fork hit the table with a loud clatter. She crossed her arms, daring us to disagree.

Looking at the thick layer of cilantro on the soup, my son pinched his nose.

He scooted his chair back, eyes wide with dread.

He takes after me—doesn't eat cilantro at all.

We've always bonded over our mutual cilantro aversion, trading grimaces at restaurants when a stray leaf appears.

"He doesn't eat cilantro. I don't eat cilantro either. I've told you countless times."

I tried to keep the peace, hoping she'd remember.

My mom didn't care: "It's not real soup if it doesn't have cilantro—trust me, it's the best part. Let him eat more—once he gets used to it, he'll like it."

She waved her hand, dismissing our protests as if they were childish nonsense.

My son looked at the table again, put down his fork, and went to watch TV.

He slumped away, shoulders drooping, defeated by dinner yet again.

"Sweetie, mom will take you out to eat. Let's have pizza, okay?"

I stood up, grabbing my purse, the promise of cheesy comfort food enough to lure him back to life.

"Okay!" My son jumped up and ran to the door.

His shoes squeaked on the tile as he dashed ahead, hope restored.

My mom slammed the table: "I buy and cook, and you still want to eat out? Which dish isn't tasty? Do you look down on me that much?"

Her voice trembled with hurt, the words sharper than usual. I flinched, but didn't look back.

"These are all what you like to eat. Why don't you ever consider Tyler's or my tastes?"

I turned to face her, my voice softer than before, but firm.

"What tastes do kids have? Don't they just eat what adults eat? What do they know about liking or not liking?"

She shook her head, exasperated, her fork still clenched in her fist.

I didn't want to argue. I took my son to get pizza. When we got home, my mom was sitting alone in the dark at the dining table, motionless.

The only light in the room came from the TV flickering in the living room. My mom's silhouette was hunched over her plate, the uneaten food casting long shadows. My heart ached, but I couldn't bring myself to speak.

How to describe it?

It felt like the kind of scene you'd find in a movie—quiet, unresolved, full of things left unsaid.

Desolate.

The word echoed in my mind, heavy and hollow.

I glanced at the neon pizza sign outside, guilt and relief warring inside me. Some nights, cheesy carbs are the only thing holding us together.

My son glanced over and shouted, "Grandma is dead!"

My heart lurched, but as I stepped into the doorway, I saw my mom just sitting there, lost in thought. The blue TV light traced her silhouette, and I stood watching, wondering if any of us would ever say what we really meant.