Chapter 1 — My Wife Is Not An Outsider

At four twenty-three in the afternoon, the phone rang. The project director sent a message to the group: "Today's summary meeting will be postponed to next Monday, everyone go home early." I stared at the screen for two seconds. Luc Tu Chu, twenty-eight years old, has worked at this company for four years. This is the first time he has been released before sunset. Leaning back in my chair, the first thought that popped into my head was not going anywhere, but — going home. Normally, Wen Duong doesn't get home until 7:30 p.m. Today, I got home three hours earlier than her. Passing by the fruit shop downstairs, I bought a box of cherries. Wen Duong loves to eat this fruit, but always regrets spending money. Every time he goes to the supermarket, he picks it up to see the price and then puts it down. Carrying the box of cherries upstairs, I was in a very good mood, even humming a few songs. The key is inserted into the lock and turned one turn. The door opens. A delicious smell of meat rushed straight into my face. It is the rich, rich aroma of braised pork mixed with the smell of fish sauce, burnt sugar, mixed with the smell of bone marrow from a pot of rib soup that must be simmered for a long time to get. I stood at the door stunned. On the dining table outside the living room are seven dishes, spread out over the entire table. The braised pork meat is neatly arranged in a white ceramic plate, the color of the meat is glossy, the lean fat is mixed together, and steaming. Next to it is a seabass steamed with soy sauce, sliced ginger and onions only cover the back of the fish, the soy sauce is still sizzling. Scoop the rib soup into a clay bowl, and as soon as you open the lid, white steam rises up. There's also sauteed cauliflower with garlic, stir-fried green beans, eggs in tomato sauce and a plate of roasted crayfish. Red, blue, white, all colors and flavors. My mother sat in the chair, putting a piece of ribs into my father's bowl. My sister, Luc An An, sat next to me, chewing a shrimp, her cheeks bulging, her phone propped up next to the bowl, scrolling through a short video. Three people, three sets of bowls and chopsticks. There was no fourth pair of chopsticks on the table. Mom looked up to see me, the chopsticks in her hand stopped in mid-air. The ribs were hovering between my grandmother and my father, a drop of meat juice dripped down, falling onto the tablecloth, spreading a round brown streak.

“Tu Chu?” Her voice rose half a beat: "Why... why are you home so early?"

Luc An An raised his head, the corners of his mouth were still stuck in shrimp shells, his eyes widened. My father's hand holding the bowl stopped, his eyes blinked, then he lowered his head to sip the soup, pretending not to see me. The air froze for about three seconds. My mother was the first to recover. She put the ribs in my father's bowl and laughed, but the smile was as stiff as if it were glued to her face.

"It's such a good time, I'll eat together when I get home!" She stood up and went to the kitchen: "Let me get another pair of chopsticks."

“An An, step aside, make room for your brother.”

Luc An An reluctantly took back the phone and moved his butt ten centimeters to the side. I sat down across from her, placing the box of cherries at my feet. Mom gave me the bowl and chopsticks, then scooped me a bowl of soup, her movements were proficient, her smile was gentle, just like the tone she used to speak to me on the phone.

“Drink a lot of soup, the ribs will simmer for two hours.”

I picked up the bowl and took a sip. The soup is really delicious. The bones are simmered until tender, the soup is milky white, sprinkled with goji berries, creating a thin layer of fat. This taste, how long will it be before I taste it again? But wait. I always drink this soup. But what about Wen Duong? That thought was like a sharp needle, piercing straight from the back of my neck. I ordered a bowl of soup down, glanced at the table. Seven dishes, three sets of bowls and chopsticks. Now it's four, because I suddenly came back, so mom took another set. But what if I don't come back? There are only three sets. At 7:30 Wen Duong returned. What will be left on the table then? I chewed a piece of braised meat, the fat melted between my teeth, both sweet and fragrant. Suddenly remembering eight o'clock last night, I went into the kitchen to pour water and saw On Duong standing in front of the stove, using the microwave to heat up a plate of pale sauteed cabbage. Her profile was reflected in the microwave light, her chin line was much thinner than when she first got married.

“Duong Duong, have you eaten?” At that time I blurted out a question.

"I've eaten, mom gave me some food, let's warm it up." She smiled, her eyes curved: "Do you want some water? Let me pour it for you."

I received the glass of water, without thinking much, turned my back to the bedroom. Now, sitting in front of a dining table filled with hot food, my stomach churns with sourness.

“Mom.” I put down my chopsticks: "Do we usually eat at this time?"

“About five thirty or six o'clock.” Mom picked up a piece of fish belly meat: "Your father has a bad stomach and can't stand hunger, don't you know?"

“Yes.” I nodded: "So when Wen Duong comes back, what does she usually eat?"

The dining table was silent for a moment. Mom's chopsticks hit the edge of the plate, making a crisp "clang" sound.

"That's for him, right?" She smiled wryly: "It's all in the pot on the stove, it'll just heat it up by itself. You know, he's late, so should we make the whole family wait? Your father's stomach is..."

“Yes, I know.”

I won't ask any more. He bowed his head to eat rice, sip by sip, drinking the entire bowl of rib soup. After eating, I said I wanted to go downstairs and take a walk to relieve my hunger. Mom said yes, and told me to wear a coat because it was cold at night. I went downstairs and didn't go far. I stood hiding behind the stone chair next to the apartment flower bed, from this corner I could look straight up at my living room window. Six forty, it was dark, the street lights were on. At ten past seven, the living room light was still on, and I could faintly see my mother cleaning the table. Twenty-eight past seven, the building door opened. Wen Duong walked in. She wore a beige overcoat that had been washed to discoloration, a cloth bag, and her steps were neither fast nor slow. When passing by the flower bed where I was hiding, I saw an expression on her face that I was very familiar with - not tiredness, not self-pity, but a calmness as if she had mentally prepared herself in advance. Like a person, before pushing open the door to enter somewhere, they have to take a deep breath. She went upstairs. I waited three minutes, then went around to the side of the building, where there was a ventilation window looking straight into the kitchen. The window opened a crack. I heard my mother's voice: "Are you home? The food is on the stove, reheat it yourself. Now the rib soup is gone, let's eat for now." Wen Duong's voice was gentle: "Yes mom, go watch TV, let me do it myself." The sound of dishes hitting each other. The microwave makes a "beep" sound and then starts up. I craned my neck to look in. On the kitchen counter, place an aluminum coffee pot. She opened the lid, and inside was half a plate of dry stir-fried green beans, a few meager pieces of egg in tomato sauce, and less than half a bowl of rice — clearly the rice scraped off the bottom of the pot after scooping up three bowls, still burned. Braised meat is no longer available. The fish are gone. Rib soup is no longer available. Shrimp is no longer available. She poured a plate of beans into a bowl of rice, squatted down and rummaged in the cupboard under the kitchen, took out a bottle of Lao Can Ma chili sauce, and turned it on. lid, scoop a spoonful and mix into the rice. Then she picked up the bowl and stood there eating in front of the kitchen counter. Never sat down. Just standing there, eating each mouthful, silently and quietly. The sound of the TV outside the living room echoed in, it was a family movie that my mother often watched. Luc An An's laughter mixed in there, laughing very loudly. Wen Duong chewed a few mouthfuls then stopped. She placed the bowl on the pedestal, bowed her head, and placed her hands on the stone table. Shoulders trembled. Just one. Then she raised her head, wiped the corner of her eyes with the back of her hand, picked up the bowl and continued eating.