What I've been up to, Part 3

Or: Let me try to explain elderly, immigrant parents as a series of bullets (7 min read)

Ring ring goes the cellphone.

“Hi, mom,” I answer.

“ER-NIEEEEE,” she sing-songs in English, before switching to Mandarin like always. “Your father is moving in your room today.”

“Okay.” I prop my swollen foot on a chair, switch to speakerphone and mouth the words FUCK ME to the ceiling fan because it usually means she’ll be talking for a while.

“What am I going to do?” she says. “He hired some Chinese people, and he had me park the car to the front of the house. I don’t like it when I can’t park my car inside the garage.”

“It’ll be fine, mom.”

“You should know that just because your father now lives in this house doesn’t mean you shouldn’t visit us when you come home.”

“I’m not going to not visit you just because dad’s in the house, mom,” I say. I find a fixed spot on the ceiling to stare at while I say this.

A week or two ago, I suggested when the time comes to visit her I could just, you know, stay at a hotel, or with friends. You could literally hear my mom recoil over the telephone -- wha…