Chapter 2 — Eighteen People, One Meal, One Divorce

After speaking, she bowed her head and picked up the food, as if it was just a formality. I sat down and discovered that the bowl in front of me was empty and no one bothered to serve me rice. I had to go into the kitchen and scoop out a bowl of hot rice myself. When I came back, there were only two left of my favorite brown sauce meatballs. My father-in-law, Tham Kien Quoc, was taking the last pill for his grandson, his voice full of concern.

“Children have to eat a little more.”

No one responded, no one paid attention to me. I just bowed my head to eat, by which time the food had cooled down quite a bit. After eating, the men went to the living room to drink tea and smoke, laughing and chatting loudly. Women sat on the sofa, watching TV, biting melon seeds, and chatting about random things. Children ran and jumped on the floor, screaming loudly and chasing each other everywhere. Ly Tu Cam turned to look at me, her tone was gentle as if she was clearly assigning a task.

“Vu Ninh, please clean up the kitchen, we women will move a bit, let the men talk.”

That sentence was as light as nothing, but as heavy as an order. I looked at the messy dining table in front of me, piles of plates and bowls, layers of grease stuck to them. I just said the word "okay" and did it all myself. Pour out the leftovers, carry the dishes into the kitchen, turn on the faucet, and start washing them one by one. The water was so cold it chilled me to the bone, but I didn't stop. That night I washed more than thirty dishes, I still remember clearly because I counted them while washing to avoid boredom. More than thirty of them, each covered in grease and thick soup. My hands were soaked in dishwashing liquid until they were white, wrinkled, and sore. My back was so tired that I couldn't stand up straight, and my legs were numb. When I finished cleaning the entire kitchen, it was already past ten o'clock at night. At that time, in the living room, the men had already begun to play cards, with the sound of cards colliding with each other. Women huddled together to look at their phones, laughing and whispering as if nothing happened. Children fell asleep on the sofa, lying horizontally and vertically. Tham Trac saw me and just raised his hand as if calling for a maid.

“Vu Ninh, boil some water, the teapot is empty.”

I went to boil water again, made tea and brought it out. After finishing, I returned to the bedroom and lay down on the bed in silence. Tham Trac finished playing cards and walked in when it was almost one o'clock in the morning. He lay down next to me and gave me a hug.

“My wife has had a hard time.”

Having finished speaking, he immediately turned his back to sleep, snoring loudly. And I lay in the dark, eyes open, looking at the ceiling, unable to sleep. It was New Year's Eve last year. This year, he said eighteen people, a few more pairs of chopsticks than last year. He said he didn't need me to go to the kitchen, just like last year he said he didn't need me to clean up. I walked to the refrigerator and pulled open the door. In the cooler there was only a small bunch of green vegetables, a few eggs and half a box of fresh milk. Looking at it, you could see that it was only enough for two people to eat a simple meal. In the freezer there are two bags of dumplings and a package of chicken wings, all of which I prepared for New Year's Eve just for the couple. A meal that is not fancy but cozy enough to call it a peaceful Tet in this house. Yet now, all those things have to struggle to feed eighteen mouths. I closed the refrigerator door, feeling cold little by little, then turned to open the kitchen cabinet, as if there was still hope of finding something to save me. There was only a thin layer of rice left in the rice box. It was estimated that it could cook three bowls of rice, but the flour bag was empty no, there's only half a bottle of cooking oil left. The spices are ridiculously abundant, everything is there but there are no ingredients to cook a real meal. There was no main dish, no fresh food, nothing enough to put on a table for eighteen people. Tham Trac said he had ordered semi-finished products at the riverside hotel, speaking as if everything was in order. I turned on my phone and flipped through last night's call history. Each number appeared clearly and irrefutably. Last night at half past eight, I called the riverside hotel. The call lasted more than a minute. I asked them if they accepted reservations for New Year's Eve, and they replied that they were not open that day and would not reopen until the third day. I asked more about packages of semi-finished products that could be pre-ordered to take home, still trying to hold on to a fragile glimmer of hope. But the other party said that everything was sold out early, and there was no delivery on New Year's Eve either. I said thank you and hung up, thinking at least I was mentally prepared. As for Tham Trac, he said he had finished placing the order, speaking softly as if it were a casual sentence. He was lying, a lie so easy, as if he didn't need to think. He never bet anything, he simply thought that if he said so, I would believe him. Just like last year, when he said he called someone to clean up on an hourly basis so I wouldn't have to do anything. I held the phone tightly, my fingertips shaking little by little. I opened WeChat, found the chat box with Tham Trac, the last message stopped at just after eleven o'clock last night. He sent an emoji of a cat lying on the pillow saying good night, and I returned it with a star. What was he doing at that time, where was he, what was he thinking. Am enthusiastically arranging today's meal in the family group whose notifications I turned off a long time ago. I clicked on the group "The Tham family" whose notifications I had blocked, and the number 999+ caught my eye. Each avatar danced continuously, all of them were his family members, so noisy that I couldn't stand it. The latest message stopped at dawn, Tham Trac sent a very natural sentence.

"Tomorrow everyone just come to my house to eat, Vu Ninh has everything ready."

I scrolled up, each conversation appeared like needles in my eyes. At eight o'clock last night, he sent a message to the group that he would invite the whole family to a reunion dinner tomorrow, along with boasting about his wife's skills. Below are each line of responses, some are polite, some are eager, some start to order.

“She likes to cook”, “let her show off a bit”, “must make braised ribs for me”.

Each sentence is a blow, gentle but cutting deep. I continued to scroll up and saw that since the other day, someone had complained about how difficult it was to book a party outside, and he immediately said to come to my house and my wife would cook. Since the day before, his mother-in-law said she wanted to come over and see the new house, so he decided on New Year's Eve to make it exciting. Each sentence and each word folded together, like a pre-woven trap.

“My wife's skills are excellent.”

“She likes to cook.”

“Let her show off.”

Each sentence was as light as nothing, but it made my hands cold. It's so cold that I can't even hold my phone. The phone fell to the ground, screen facing the floor. I bent down to pick it up, the screen was not broken but a thin crack appeared. A stretch line extends from the upper left corner to the lower right corner, like a small wound. I stared at that crack for a long time, like being sucked in. Then open the phonebook, find the name "mother-in-law" and press call. The bell rang three times before being picked up.

"Vu Ninh", her voice rang out, behind her there was noise, children crying and laughing, adults talking.

I spoke up, my throat dry.

"We're about to leave, how are your preparations?" she asked, her voice full of excitement.

"Those are eighteen people, remember to prepare a lot of food, don't be short."

I told Tham Trac that he had already ordered the food, trying to keep his voice calm. But she interrupted immediately, laughing loudly over the phone.

"Whatever you order, outside food is not as good as home-made food, and it's also expensive. If you're quick, you can cook it yourself."

“Eating a reunion meal must be done with your own hands to have meaning.”

My heart sank little by little, as heavy as if being dragged to the bottom of the water. I said I was afraid I wouldn't be able to turn eighteen people in time, but she still said in a light voice that she could do it all.

"Get up early and cook, mom told Tham Trac to come home early to help you."

“Ah yes, the eldest sister's daughter doesn't eat spicy food, so don't put in the chili.”

"My husband is allergic to shellfish, shrimp and crab, that's all."

"As for Tieu Man, who is pregnant, the food is bland, I made two dishes for her."

“His father likes potato ribs, remember to stew them a bit.”

“Mom, I'm craving the meatballs you made, let's steam some more.”

She gave each and every sentence, so clearly that it was as if I was already standing in front of the stove, apron tied neatly, ladle in hand, waiting to cook. It was as if everything was predetermined, that I would be the one to take care of the reunion dinner for those eighteen people.

"Mom." I called out again, trying to keep my voice from shaking, as if holding on to the last bit of calm.

“He said he didn't need me to go to the kitchen.” I spoke slowly, each word falling.

The other end of the line paused for a beat, then the mother-in-law burst out laughing, the laughter sounded very comfortable.

"This guy, he's always talking nonsense. How can we let outsiders cook the reunion dinner? It must be cooked by family members."

"No more talking, Mom, let's get in the car, see you later, Vu Ninh."

“Do it properly, so that our family can have dignity!” After she finished speaking, she hung up the phone.

The sound of "sucking" rang out on the phone, lasting monotonously like a deep void. I stood in the middle of the living room, still holding the phone, I don't know how long it had been. The morning light slanted through the window, falling onto the floor in a pale streak of light. In that light, dust floated, tiny, dense, quietly without a sound. I stared at those dust particles for a long time, as if I wanted to see through them to see something else.