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"Ah Meimei, if you ever get cravings at college, hot water, a dollar, and wa-la! You got yourself a bowl of mei-wei food," Mama says with a heavy accent, her attention focused on the second cup of ramen. Carefully, she pours in the boiling water, and the steam rises, weaving its narcotic tendrils through the frigid air, mingling with the puffs of our breath. All the while, the rattling furnace adds its own uncertain rhythm to the symphony.

In the kitchen, it's just the two of us, with me perched atop a stool, the briny scent of MSG and artificial chicken soup enveloping the atmosphere. "Mind you, don't make a habit, or else you will gain weight," she continued, wrinkling her stubby nose, her concern evident. "But you know, it’s all survival." She lets her sentence hang in the air, filling the silence with the clattering of utensils.

Survival; to Mama, that word carries a weight beyond measure. Her story is a familiar one: the tale of the American Dream. She was once a bright-eyed girl; her hair adorned with pigtail braids, her wide grin revealing deep dimples as she embarked on her journey across the vast sea. Her bag held a mere twenty dollar bill, bearing the scrunched eyebrows of Andrew Jackson, destined to be spent on the inevitable taxi fare. It was a voyage in pursuit of a new beginning, a glistening prospect that enticed her.

With her skewed pronunciation, she leapt from one job to another, each one a stepping stone on the path of survival. It led her through cramped and suffocating houses, where weary floorboards creaked beneath her every step. Shelves held nothing but a worn-out wooden bowl and chopsticks. She learned to savor every morsel of meat clinging to a tiny bone. Day after day, she wore the same clothes, styled her hair in the same manner, and consumed the same modest fare.

Then, one day, she toiled her way to a point where she blended seamlessly into the tapestry of middle-class existence. And perhaps, in that moment, the line between survival and living began to blur. But remnants of unfulfilled dreams would always seep through the cracks. Eventually, those cracks birthed me, and I became the answer to her unfinished American Dream—a vessel for her happiness, her hopes, and her "dreams."

And perhaps, in that dance of intertwined fates, I too became a part of her survival. No victories emerge from the clashes between child and parent. Ultimately, both parties bear the weight of defeat. I grasped this truth at a tender age, yet I remain unwilling to back down. Clumsy hands clutch onto the fragile remnants of my pride.

Mama, too, possesses this unwavering stubbornness. Her gaze cast downward, her face gradually flushing with crimson, her temper ignites at the slightest provocation—a bad grade, a thoughtless remark, a playful joke. And more often than not, it is I, striving to douse the flames, who inadvertently exacerbates the fire.

It often happens when I become too much like her, repeating the very mistakes she struggled to shield me from. The summers that followed 2020 carried no traces of soft sunlight, where washing lines adorned with billowing white linen clothes swayed lazily in the breeze. There were no promises of peace flowing with a hazy glow into our homes. Instead, those seasons became a tapestry woven with the threads of our weekly disagreements.

It crams the air with a trance-like dance of shadows, darting around each pushed-away chair, as we stood up thinking we’d be heard better. Thunderstorms and lightning lulled us to sleep, as sticky tears dripped onto cotton pillow sheets. Echoes of angry shouts minutes ago, still ringing around in each ear. We were trapped in a home with no escape.

"I do all of this for you!" Her words hurled in a crowded parking lot. "All this time, for what?" Her palms slammed against the table. "If only you had studied harder." Her eyes pinched with disappointment. The cycle repeated. I yelled back. She snapped back at me for raising my voice. We subjected our ears to the assault, our parched lips salivating with each angry word, accelerating the argument until neither of us could decipher the other's meaning. Amid unspoken sentiments, she offered visions of grandeur, success, and dreams, if only I would listen. A compromise always lingered in the air, but neither of us was willing to yield.

After all, Mama and I are cut from the same cloth, bound by an inextricable thread. We are each other's reflection—the embodiment of what could have and what might be. Our strife remains unresolved. There is no “sorry” in our household. And so, after each conflict, nothing unfolds. “A family needs none of that,” Mama always says with her mouth pursed into a flat line. But sometimes, forgiveness tastes like Mama's homemade miso ramen.

"Always start with homemade chicken broth," she advises, shuffling through the cabinet. "Fresh noodles, too," she adds, as the steam hisses from the pot. "And to top it off, a sunny-side-up egg." Her sturdy hands guide my wrist, tap, tap, tap. The egg settles into the bubbling concoction, its golden yolk beaming up at me. "Aya! Two yolks in one—something good is gonna happen to you!"

Mama learned to survive on her own in America, but perhaps she can live her dreams a bit more through me. As much as I resent that bitter yet saccharine dependence, I will always forgive her. For, when all is said and done, how could I have weathered the storm without her by my side? There is no “sorry” in our household. Nor is there any “I love you”.

Love has always been a privilege for Mama—she, who conceals her heart behind the fortress of calloused hands, unkept promises walling off each sickly sweet emotion. She, who had to learn to buy grass-fed beef and organic apples, as the cheaper alternative had always been the one placed in the rattling grocery cart. She, who finds solace in savoring the remnants of meals. She, who haggled persistently for over thirty minutes to secure a discount on the jacket she purchased for me.

And perhaps love tastes like all of that. Love tastes like succulent, tender kosher chicken and the crisp bite of freshly cut red bell peppers. It’s noodles dancing in a golden bath of fragrant oils, adorned with delicate green onions and sprinkles of sesame seeds. And even though we will never truly understand each other, maybe we can both dream the same dream—one of radiant, blushing faces, the color of freshly cut tomatoes. Soft laughter will fill the syrupy air, ramen broth trickling down our chins, as gentle hands wipe it away. And perhaps both of us will truly live a little bit more.