Ngoại texts me once every season. To tell me where she is and that she loves me. A life-size painting of her, a gift from the ex-boyfriend, is hung in her living room. She had her carpet removed so it was easier to dance. She hides cans of corn under her bed. No one knows what she spends her money on. Once, I saw her return home in full glam at 5am; she told me, it got dark out, so I had to wait till sunrise to return. Her closet rod broke because she hung too many towels on it. When I was a child, I saw dirt in my cup of milk and asked her to get me new milk. Instead, she poured the same glass into another cup and thought I wouldn’t notice. I've found broken glass in her soup. But her chè is divine. She taught me what real jade looked like and has never once told me I should get married.