2023 Short Story & Essay Contest: Honorable Mention, High School Essay Contest
I crack open four eggs. Two for the egg custard, and two for my dinner. I look over at the old oven clock and take in a deep, steady breath. The time is 11 p.m., and Mom and Dad haven’t arrived. Today, they said 10. I start mixing sugar, milk and butter in one pan. I cook the mixture slowly on the stovetop, watching it gradually grow to a roaring boil.
Waiting for them is something I have always been doing. They work long hours with no time to eat or time to call. I don’t see them often, but when I do, I always try to brighten their day with my love language of food. I sometimes debate if I should stay up late at night to spend time with them, or to rather sleep. I wake up at 6 for school and sleeping at midnight wouldn’t be the best, but seeing my parents brings me tepidness. Maybe it’s because I rarely see them, but hearing them slide the noisy front door open brings me relief that I can’t explain much. Their calloused hands and aching body from work, opening for a hug, never fail to bring me a familiar warmth and comfort. The smell of sweat and optimism from 14-hour shifts to support the family brings me thoughts of wistful memories.
I gather the flour. Feeling the soft granules between my fingers reminds me of making breakfast on Sunday mornings, the only times they’re not busy. Kneading the rough dough brings me memories of playing with my parents’ ingredients when they often cooked food when I was young. I take in a breath of nostalgia.
I remember my childhood of fresh white rice and steamed tilapia. The reminiscence of enjoying the sun in the yard with my parents soon rose to an end when I grew older. I was old enough to take care of myself, which meant being capable of three things—cooking, bathing and the basics of a phone. They could finally devote their time to work and dedicate themselves to earning money for college.
I divide the smooth dough into eight pieces. Rolling each ball with reason, I wrap the custard filling that burned my hands, adding sprinkles of flour in between. I place the delicate buns on plates and begin to steam them. For 12 minutes. It’ll be done at 11:43.
Although I always grow impatient, I never forget the hardships my parents endured. I never forget the sacrifice of signing their life away in a stack of papers, the sleepless nights, and the commitment to owning a small business. Through the peaks and valleys, I have shared with my parents, I’ve learned wit and infinite tenacity.
I hear the front door slide open. I open the lid with a sudden rush of hot steam, engulfing my face. I quickly hold out the ardent, imperfect custard buns.
“Ma, Ba, I made this for you,” I say with a sapped smile plastered on my face.
