One Extra Dish

The kitchen smelled of cooking oil that weekend. Wearing a faded white apron, I was busy at the stove for two hours. One by one, the dishes went on the table: braised fish, stewed ribs, stir-fried greens—seven dishes in all. The last dish to be served was a plate of stir-fried cabbage with vinegar, my one and only favorite. William Lester, my son, came home from work, rubbing his hands and saying he was hungry. His wife, Cherry, followed behind him, glanced at the dining table, and her face immediately darkened. "Mom, what's wrong with you?" She threw her bag onto the sofa. "All seven dishes are your favorites. Do you have no consideration for us?" The rag in my hand froze for a moment. "These are all dishes you usually like," I explained, "I just added a plate of cabbage that I like." "Added?" Cherry raised her voice, "We work hard all day, and when we come home, we're supposed to eat what you leave behind? You're way too selfish!" William sat at the table silently, just picked up his chopsticks and grabbed a rib. I felt a heavy lump in my chest. I'm fifty-eight years old, and I've been cooking for this family for thirty years. I always put their tastes first, and today I only made an extra plate of what I like. "I'm selfish?" I stared at Cherry. "Which of these dishes didn't I make with your preferences in mind?" "Don't argue with me!" Cherry pushed the plate of stir-fried cabbage with vinegar. "Hurry up and take this lousy cabbage away and make two dishes we actually like!" The plate slid halfway across the table, spilling its sauce. I couldn't hold it in any longer and slapped the table over. Bowls and plates shattered all over the floor, and the sauce splattered onto Cherry's skirt. "Are you crazy?" Cherry screamed. William finally put down his chopsticks, but it wasn't to defend me. He frowned, his voice tinged with impatience: "Mom, what are you doing? Clean the floor, then cook again!" I looked at him, the son I've raised for thirty years, who, in my time of pain, only expected me to give in. My heart felt like it had been pierced by an ice pick, cold and aching. "I won't cook for you anymore." I took off my apron and threw it to the floor. "I'm going back to the old house. From now on, you fend for yourselves." After saying that, I turned and walked toward the door. William shouted from behind, "Mom! Don't throw a tantrum!" I didn't look back. Tears welled up in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall in front of them.