I feed them in tandem. Wood ear mushroom for my three-year-old. A pincer-ful of macerated dumpling skin for the baby. Brown sauce stains my fingernails, tie-dyes too many wet wipes. They like it—real Chinese food, five spice, fodmaps, even fungus. Fortune cookies arrive with the check. On parent autopilot, I crack my son’s cookie open. He pouts, wanting to have done it himself. “You can have mine.” I find his fortune on the floor among the pitched food scraps and chopsticks: Your joy will attract abundance. I leave it on the table; no need to save what’s already come true.
Ida Shiang writes about pig-butchering scams and motherhood. She lives in Alexandria, Virginia, with her husband, kids, and two cats.