By: Lynette Yang “Baobei, I’m heading out now,” Jade’s mother called out from the entrance to the small apartment, the keys jingling in her hand as she pulled on her reflective teal work vest, the back emblazoned with the company’s logo. “Warm up the leftovers from last night—that should be enough for our dinner.” Upon hearing her mother’s voice, Jade placed down her yellow PaperMate pencil, and her projectile motion homework was put on hold while she went to bid her mother farewell for the day. “You’re working on a holiday again?” she asked as she exited her room. “When are you coming back?” “I’ll be home at around seven-thirty. Don’t wait for me during dinner, okay?” Jade nodded before hugging her mother tightly, the older woman smelling faintly of East Asian takeout, rain, and gasoline fumes, all of which Jade no longer enjoyed. She knew her mother never used to smell like this before coming to Canada; however, they had no choice but to adapt and improvise with their circumstances. “Stay safe, A-Ma,” said Jade when they pulled apart from their embrace. “Don’t stay out for too long in the rain or you’ll catch a cold.” “It didn’t seem so long ago when I used to be telling you that.” Jade’s mother smiled ruefully, her hand gently cupping Jade’s cheek. “You were so tiny and accident-prone, I didn’t know if you would be catching diseases one day or lice the next.” “That must be an exaggeration, A-Ma,” Jade teased. “I don’t remember catching many maladies as a child.” “Perhaps I’ve forgotten. Look at your mother now, chubby and graying.” Jade’s mother sighed, taking a brief pause to look at herself. “It won’t be long before I forget everything, even you.” “That’s not happening anytime soon,” Jade reassured after a brief shock at her mother’s words. “Even if you do forget me, I’ll make sure to keep coming back to remind you that I’m your daughter. I’ll remind you of everything we’ve gone through–the good and the bad.” “That’s my daughter.” Jade’s mother pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, her eyes observing her daughter’s features and mannerisms. “Your Baba would be so proud of you, our little treasure.” A sudden rush of emotions came to the surface, hot tears pricking Jade’s eyes as she thought of her late father, who was typically a topic of avoidance. “I miss him. I miss it when he used to make jokes during dinner or family gatherings.” Jade sniffled, rubbing her eyes dry with her gray sweatshirt, the fabric dampened and darkened with short dark lines from the tears. “The dinner table used to be lively when he was around.” Jade’s mother nodded knowingly, her heart sharing the same ache as her daughter’s. “You know, your Lao-Ye used to disapprove of your Baba. He always said that your father never made enough money and worried that I would be living in poor conditions if I married him.” “No way,” Jade murmured in disbelief, her voice slightly congested from crying. “Lao-Ye always liked Baba; he laughed the loudest at Baba’s jokes.” “That’s where your father’s weapon was: his interpersonal skills. He practically charmed your grandfather to the point I began to wonder if he was wooing your grandfather or me.” Jade chuckled, the mood lightening thanks to her mother’s playful remark. “I could see Lao-Ye twirling his beard for Baba,” she joked, which earned a bark of laughter from her mother. A comfortable silence filled the room as the mother-daughter duo stood in front of each other, their sorrows and joys exposed in a rare occurrence for conversation. “Well, I’d best be off now,” Jade’s mother announced, letting out a deep breath before returning to her original activities. “Goodbye, Baobei.” “Bye, A-Ma. Don’t drive too fast on the roads.” The shuffling of worn runners moving from wood floor to carpet and an audible click of the front door lock. Jade was now home alone, her mother off to deliver takeout to strangers during the cold, dreary holiday where people either stayed at home or drove when they went out—all to bring home a little more cash. Jade knew it never used to be that way. Striding back into her room, she picked up her journal from her bookshelf, the book’s pages beginning to yellow from age. It was a gift from her grandparents, a way for her to express her emotions after her father’s passing during her elementary years. Since then, numerous pages have been filled with anecdotes or mournful passages about major events which happened in her life or before it. Jade wafted the scent of the paper to her nose, the smell of her old home faint but present even after ten years. She reread old entries about her father’s vehicle accident and the silence during dinner; her mother immigrating to Canada while she remained with her grandparents; her first days in Canada, the dreadful weather, and the never-ending teasing she endured from her peers; the realization that her mother was now a takeout delivery driver, not a doctor; the heartache she felt as her mother cried behind closed doors for being unable to better provide for them, and her decision to become a doctor to bring life to her mother’s dreams. Finally, a fresh page. Jade picked up her pencil from her desk and began to scribble down the emotions felt and stories told from a few minutes earlier, the smell of pencil lead filling the air. “I promise you, A-Ma,” Jade whispered to herself, her hand beginning to cramp from the speed at which she wrote, “If you forget, I’ll remind you over and over again until you remember. Your story—our story—will not be forgotten.”