Drip drop. Plink. Splish Splash. The sink is leaking again.

Again?

But we only fixed it a while ago. Was it not just a little while ago? 

I don’t remember.

And the pressure cooker broke as well. Should not have asked a child to make the soup, you have no responsibilities, you cannot even close the lid properly.

I can! It is not my fault that I did not know how to close it. I’ve never used a pressure cooker before, I never had to cook back in China, I can’t magically learn something in two minutes; I’m not a magician. 

All this hard work in preparing the food wasted. Such a simple task, and you still fail to complete it. 

Such a simple task. Now the pressure cooker is broken, the insides burnt coal-black, the winter-melon dark, the water gone. I smelled it after we came back, I knew I did. The tiny apartment reeked with the smell of smoke coming from the blackness inside of the pot. I didn’t want to look inside, you made me look inside. You say it’s nothing scary but it’s scary to me; all the insides burnt and black and dry. 

Everything was so much simpler back in China. I want to go back. My clothes magically folded themselves after I came home from school, mom. The bed straightened the sheets for me. My old room tidied itself; my new room disobeys my orders, and it does not tidy itself anymore. The plates do not wash themselves, nor does the food cook itself. I don’t want to learn to use a washing machine; I don’t want to drag all my clothes the laundry room; I want to go back! Why can’t we go back?

Don’t ask so many questions! We used to have a maid to help us; now we don’t. Of course it would be easier! You’re almost a teenager now; you should be able to help me, your mother who is laden down with work and school, all to give us - to give you - a better future. 

We used to have so many things and now we don’t. We used to live on one of the highest floors of our building overlooking the lake. We used to drive a shiny BMW. Now we live in a one-bedroom apartment across a parking lot where cars screech at night. Now we drive an old, grey, rusting Honda. I forgot the color of the BMW. It might have been tan. Tan is better than grey. Grey is dull and sad; grey is a blend of things. I do not want to be dull or stuck in the middle like grey. 

You said it would be better here. I believed it would be. Every time we vacationed here, it was perfect. Perfect and nice. I was happier, more carefree – even the water tasted better. Now the dream is shattered, shards of broken glass that poke and prick and pry every time I try to pick them up.

What changed, mom? I thought you would keep your promise. But it’s broken like the pressure cooker, everything black and burnt and dry inside. You can buy a new pressure cooker. But I can’t buy a new promise. 

What changed, mom? Why is everything so complicated now? I thought it would be better here, but it isn’t – it really isn’t.