Snow fell hard during the winter break. Every morning, we bundled up and took to shoveling our driveway. At one point, there was a wall of snow as high as Tienne. I declared that we built a snow fort, and since that took everyone off their screens for the day, we had fun.

My songs became increasingly centered around snow-related literary devices. We had a nearby fast-moving creek that never froze over. I'd trudge down there and film a few minutes of branches in the breeze, ducks in the water, snow tumbling from the eaves of our house. Nothing award-winning, but I got a better sense of the backdrop I wanted to put my music against. Not the tall and complex architecture of Toronto—not yet. For now, it was about home.

—

I rubbed my eyes, reluctantly pushing away a thick book on music theory. The result was a sort of withdrawal where the novelty of information eased into a manageable amount that I could handle, like shaving excess foam off of a latte.

Over the break, Phiona had sent me a message encouraging me to improve my craft. She said she had more on her plate than anticipated. While she had plans to organize something after the break, I needed to do my own research to see if there were other areas in my career I'd be interested in expanding.

I hadn't realized that my skills were stagnating. Years of mastery of the guitar helped me conquer the swift learning curve of learning a new craft. So while having ten tabs open on my phone and three books in front of me, I made enormous progress by broadening the possibilities lying behind doors I never considered. Composing multi-instrumental tracks, collaborations, and branching out of the genre of music I naturally gravitated towards....Time seemed to stand still until my phone buzzed with an Instagram notification, and that was when I realized six hours had vanished into the void. Almost time for me to cook canh cà và cá hồi. Where had the time gone?

The Instagram notification came from a nice comment on my recorded video for "Rain," which was the simple title I picked for Nora's song. "Nice lyrics!" someone said. I scrolled through the other comments. Another person—a start-up musician who I had followed back—commented on the folk/indie tone my song had. He even asked me in my direct message inbox if I was willing to collaborate with him.

I messaged them out of impulse: "Sure! What are we working on?"

He messaged back: "I don't know, something folk/indie. We can each write half of the song."

That conversation went nowhere. I could not handle his vagueness, yet the moment I proposed something concrete he declined. Even creativity needed some law and order, especially in a collaboration. I tossed my phone on the bed, sighing. It was possible my large text messages or specific questions had thrown him off. But how else would we collaborate if we didn't know our roles?

I recalled Phiona's advice for social media: "Your people will find you, but you need to be looking for them too."

She'd reiterated being honest with who she was helped her find her real family. I had looked at how other Autisitc musicians like Jennifer Msumba and Blxck Cxsper easily talked about being on the spectrum, but their content varied into all other parts of their life and craft. But I couldn't bring myself to change my profile description to include my Autistic identity. The real world and the online world were completely different universes. I had no idea how many people would pass by my profile, glance at the word "Autistic" and assume things out of my control. It was also why I handled my gigs by listing my accomodations instead of applying a label to it. Once it was out of your mouth, it solidified into an appetite for Autistic-centered content, and not who I really was.

I just wanted to exist in peace. And for that I was grateful for social media. In some ways my followers were more supportive than the people living under the same roof as me.

I got up and folded the blanket neatly. "I think I understand what you meant by now," I said to the walls. His absence didn't carve a sense of loss within me. Instead I felt his absence in our parents and Kimmy, who'd been closer to Liam. Tienne and I had grown up knowing Liam who was a part-time sibling, and a part-time stranger.

"Staying here is destroying me, Tai," said Liam. "It'd be better for everyone if I left."

My sisters and I had watched the full fallout in slow motion, not realizing the signs. Liam was the centerpiece of our family as much as he was invisible. He held the academic accolades, club achievements, and he was popular at school. He also liked to do things on his own. We'd got along well enough. Now I wondered if the stretches of silence between playing sports and re-enacting Pokemon battles—even when I was the one ready to talk—were normal of a sibling relationship with a gap of eight years. Or if the silence was a symptom of the pressure Liam carried on his shoulders as he went to law school, just like our parents wanted him to.

A spike of adrenaline shot through me like I was on the verge of falling. The memory of the week before he left for San Francisco for good brought bitterness to my tongue. Heated exchanges of Liam's broken Vietnamese and our parents stuttering in English to meet my brother halfway chafed like sandpaper against skin.

Would I follow in my brother's path? Would our parents' academic-centered vision repel me the same way it repelled Liam like similar poles on a magnet? I wasn't blind to my parents' mistakes, but if I conceded or waited for the dust to clear, I might never get a second chance to make them see how much both them and music meant to me.

—

Sweat dripped off my brow as I slowly poured in the mix of fish sauce and egg into the giant pot. Just like my mom instructed me, I used the chopsticks to scramble the eggs underneath the soup. Slowly, the cooked egg began to rise in fluffs to the soup's surface. Then I poured in the cooked okra, halved tomatoes, and chopped taro stems. I stirred the soup with the ladle carefully so the salmon chunks wouldn't fall apart. The aroma which I could only recall as good which would be filling my belly for lunch soon filled the kitchen.

She inspected my handiwork. "Good."

While she prepared side dishes on the stove, I leaned against the countertop and continued eating my taro pudding. Cooking canh cà và cá hồi was satisfying and one of the best comfort foods to have during the winter. One time, Monty had skeptically asked me why I cooked foods that I couldn't actually eat. That wasn't true since the only things I couldn't eat were the tomatoes and egg fluff. The okra had to have been frozen to get rid of the sliminess, but if not, I topped the dish with lettuce and raw mung bean sprout roots. I ate the noodles separately with only a bit of soup so the noodles wouldn't soften beyond the point where the texture would feel normal in my mouth. But even then, their flavours diffused into the soup, so I technically still enjoyed the entire dish. Besides, cooking was a simple science experiment that was a part of life, and when I actually remembered to set aside time to cook, it was fulfilling.

"You cook this in Toronto?" Mom said, glancing back. I shook my head. "Why?"

I waved my hand in the air, expressing the lightning speed of time that always escaped me. "Don't worry, I'm not living on instant noodles."

"Mmm," she said. "Are you sure about living on your own?"

"I'm trying my best," I said through a mouthful of sticky taro. For me, Autism and time awareness co-existed differently from what she thought, but it was do-able. "Besides I'm getting help from—from Monty," I corrected myself. Phiona's name nearly slipped out of my mouth. I wasn't blind to needing help, but I had to walk the tightrope of my parents' expectations.

After everything was done, we sat down to eat. Dad joined us. Kimmy and Tienne were still sleeping. They joked that the moment I stepped back into our house, my parents' internal clock reset to align with my own morning habits. I took it as a hopeful sign that they'd gotten over their non-existent issues with Nora. It allowed me to focus back on my music.

I animatedly talked to my parents about my career plans. During my hyperfocus stretch in the morning, I looked through forums to understand my parents' mindset. First-generation immigrants endured a lot to give their kids better lives. Their worst-case scenario was us living homeless on the streets, while for us, our baseline was living a life without cultivating our passion. I couldn't starve myself like that.

Near the end of the meal, when my mom got up to gather the dishes, my dad leaned in from across the table. "Will the money from Youtube be enough?"

I searched my soup for leftover salmon pieces. "I don't know. You need a lot of views in the first place."

"Do what you like, but having a roof over your head is also important. Your mom keeps telling me to tell you to get a higher education," he said, chuckling. Sun wrinkles appeared around his grin, and I pointed to the piece of tomato stuck between his teeth. "That is why she's getting an engineering degree."

I heard this so many times already. Slurping the soup, I finished and put the dishes into the sink. Mom had already gone upstairs to resume her online courses.

Dad went on, "The only reason she is not pressing about your girlfriend is because we saw Nora comforting you. She didn't judge you for stimming. Your mom is worried that people won't treat you the same for being Autistic."

"But what do you think?" I said. "I can never tell what you guys want sometimes."

"We didn't expect you to have a relationship so soon—"

"Baba, we're perfectly capable of having romantic feelings," I said reflexively. He blinked at my outburst. I looked down, recalling my parents had never assumed that. "Sorry. I was thinking of some...something else."

He said, "You like to distance yourself from other people. So you don't get hurt."

"Baba, you always refer to Mama's feelings," I said, "but did you really agree with her?"

"I was nervous that she wasn't from our culture," Dad admitted, wiping his nose. "When you are different, people do not see you as equal. Your Mama and I fought like cats because of that. She was worried that I, coming from a slightly wealthier family, would put leverage on hers. Meanwhile, your grandparents, my Mama and Baba, distrusted your Mama because she had a lower education. And I did too. We..."

The complicated drama of my parents' love life had me drifting in and out of the story. I had to ask him to repeat things so I could understand it, but even then, I couldn't fathom thinking about having so little faith in others because of those kinds of differences. I wondered how I was going to handle convincing Mom. It was as formidable a task as asking a mountain to move.

"But for me, I believe in opportunities," Dad finished between a mouthful of noodles. "We are not in a dire financial situation. If it takes longer for you, then your career shall last longer, and that investment is worth it."

I eyed him skeptically. "Are you sure?" My parents' minds changed as often as the weather.

"Yes," he said, "but don't take my word as permission to make your choice. What have you been up to these past months?"

I showed him some of Phiona's music videos. She didn't use fancy lighting or camera work, but she achieved a beautiful aesthetic that matched her upbeat soca songs. Her older videos had the lyrics where she wrote them out herself on paper and sped it up. "She's a music friend in Etobicoke. She started her career late, so it gives me hope that I can do it too..."

—

There was no easy way to bite the bullet. When Mom brought up the subject again, I laid out my arguments.

"I have my Kumon job, I can afford to hire a music manager who's knowledge and understanding, and the progress I'm making is more fulfilling than my small victories in university," I said, tapping the piece of paper where I'd drafted my speech. Once again, we were in the living room, with my parents on the couch, myself standing in front of the TV, and my sisters eavesdropping from the kitchen. My heart beated out of my chest as I concluded this grand performance that would make or break my parents' opinions. "Mom, you're worried that the outside world isn't going to be nice to me, but it's not like I can avoid it. It's not like I haven't been dealing with ableism for my entire life. University might have had more resources to help me, but academics...academics just isn't the right path for me."

I had gone over this script with Tienne. She made sure I included both sides of the argument, something I wasn't good with since I could never tell what went on in Mom's head.

"I understand you," Mom said at last. She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. Uh oh. "But. We work very hard so you have access to the resources and opportunities we didn't have in our time. In music, only the lucky people make money. In the arts, your skills and effort do not translate to success. I do not want you to stay stuck choosing entry-paying jobs like before."

I deflated. Cashiers, sales associates, and those kinds of positions held too many variables. They make it sound like multitasking, customer interaction and adjusting to the individual's needs were mandatory skills needed in life. But they took a huge mental toll on me. I only had to endure a couple weeks of psychological scarring before everyone, and myself included, realized that I couldn't "improve" the skills I didn't have. That was like asking a blind person to see—it was impossible.

That was way back in high school. I knew myself better now. The reason why I tried my very best in university wasn't just because I was brought up stereotypically Asian. That played a part, since education was important. But also because for my own benefit, education could land me in a stable job that wasn't as stressful.

But the education system here didn't accommodate people with disabilities well. Yet another obstacle to overcome.

Maybe it would be better if I stayed here after all.

"How long?" she asked.

"Huh?" I stopped circling around the living room and looked up. I was so occupied with stimming—when I was frustrated, stepping in beat with songs in my head helped—that I hadn't paid attention to anything she said.

"You are a musician, not a manager or someone at the top. I looked up programs for music, but translating your craft into marks has been more harmful than helpful. So a lot of it will be finding the right people to work with. People you can trust," she emphasized. "I can wait, but I don't want to wait forever and wonder if my son is really okay, or he is struggling and refuses to tell me. I don't want to lose you. But if pursuing your career..." she sighed, her skinny shoulder blades dropping. She said, "If you want to walk your own path, don't do it alone. I don't want to wait until it's too late for you to confidently tell me you are okay."

Her voice was taut like a wire, slicing the shield inside me that guarded my highest hopes for the future. Because no one knew, did they? To hope for the best, and to look down the distance I could fall if my dreams were crushed...I broke down in sobs.

There was thumping from the kitchen as someone—Tienne, maybe—ran to me, but Mom reached me first and clasped her dry, cracked hand in mine. "Focus on your job. When I graduate with my engineering degree, I can support you more. But if you cannot promise that you are completely independent, do not lie and say you are. There is no shame in getting help."

"Mom, you're hurting him," Tienne's voice said. "He doesn't like being touched without his permission."

I shook my head. With everyone gathering around me, it was starting to get claustrophobic. "Tienne, you don't need to speak for me. I'm fine. Just...let me...catch my breath. I need to think."

Ceramic clinked against glass as my dad prepared a cup of water for me.

I squeezed my mom's hand and wondered that, if I placed her palm on the floors, would she see the tessellating patterns of peach-coloured rings, orbiting around an undefined center like planets, each on their own gravitational path? Would she see how much I wanted to change myself, not my Autism but how easily I absorbed people's perceptions and camouflaged them as my own?

Nora, Monty and even my siblings had wondered how I could love my parents despite their initial ableism, despite their flaws that hurt us. That was the meaning of family, right? Of my family. But it took many late-night conversations with Tienne for me to fish up the painful memories interwoven with the love that my parents, according to Tienne's hypothesis, unconsciously disguised. My mom, yelling at the school principal who claimed I wasn't being bullied. My mom, dragging me home to home-school me for a year while my dad took extra shifts at his better-paying job. My parents, who annoyed the heck out of me by asking me everything they could about Autism. Looking back, it had irritated my younger self only because no one else thought to ask me what I felt. What I could be capable of. What I needed assistance with.

"I've been asking you for help the entire time, Mama," I said at last. "I was afraid you'd say no."

She closed her eyes and put my hand to her cheek. This was our love—weathered and bruised, something we peeled back to reveal the raw layer of emotions underneath.

—

Moving out was like that moment when the plane took off, and you looked out the window to everything below. I could see so much more of the world, and appreciate how everything connected.

Standing on the porch with bags in hand, I realized that feeling hadn't diminished. It could be because of the unnecessary amount of food my mom packed, or because my family was orbiting around me, asking unnecessary questions to which they knew the answers.

My stomach flipped and tied itself in knots at the elation and nervousness of going back to Toronto. My parents were hesitant, but after proving Phiona's credibility and showing my improving social media presence, they accepted my request to wait a little more. They agreed to the additional financial support I'd need, and while I was grateful for that, I was most relieved for their verbal consent.

I made it clear to Mom how I felt rejected by her doubt in my career. We'd come to a new, if temporary understanding about my future. My only future was freeing my passion so I could lift me up in the sky—it wasn't going to chain me. If my mom had the stamina to get an engineering degree at sixty-one years old, then I could afford to nurture my passions. Reluctantly, my mom agreed to give me more time. I'd have to give her progress reports. "I want to know what you're doing," she assured me when I pointed out some weeks might have no progress at all.

"Are you going to come back to Kingston after all this?" Tienne asked as I loaded everything into the trunk of my car.

The wind was picking up, fast and cold. I shivered. I hadn't thought about the future. "I have a higher chance of building a music career in Toronto. But coming back sounds nice."

"Give us updates about Nora!" Kimmy said. "Yeesh, you're such a crybaby. How are you going to write sad songs and sing them without dribbling snot everywhere?"

I punched her on the arm. "I don't perform my sad songs. Those are for me. Bye. Bye, Mama! Bye, Baba!"

"Bye!" they said.

In the sleepy morning dawn, the snow was tinted purple and blue. Black-capped chickadees twittered from snow-covered pine trees. It could be nighttime, or it could be the time that was suspended between one extreme and the other, where the road disappeared behind you and anything was possible. 

A/N: As the culinary world can be full of non-specific rules, I wanted to clarify canh cà và cá hồi  and the version that my mom makes (which is what Tai's dish is based off of) compared to common recipes you might find online. 

Canh cà và cá hồi translates to tomato and salmon soup. How my mom does it is 

1) boil salmon chunks [usually salmon head] separately in plain water until it is just cooked

2) toss in the salmon, other veggies like mushroom, taro stem, okra, fried tofu (soft tofu is gonna break apart) and/or beancurd into the soup, and add monosodium glutamate and salt for flavour - keep on medium to high heat.

3) mix crab paste with egg and do the chopstick swirly thing that Tai does (the more egg you put, the more solid it is and it floats on the top. less egg = looser fluff)

4) add the tomato chunks, then depending on how soft/hard you want them, turn off the heat when you're satisfied 

5) serve with white noodles, lettuce, cilantro, and fried shallot rings if you want. I like to dip the salmon in fish sauce. The soup taste is a mix of sweet and sour.

This chapter was originally published where I had mistaken tomato and salmon soup for bún riêu. Bún riêu is different because it's usually spicy, usually with tamarinds, usually served with mung bean roots, and usually the meat is crab. (My mom uses pork and does not use tamarinds.) But see I had mixed up the two because they both had tomatoes and mushrooms....and also because my mom transplanted the crab paste egg fluff from bún riêu to canh cà và cá hồi.

Anyway if you ever want to try the recipe and have questions, feel free to reach out to me! [Disclaimer: I am not responsible for any mishaps in the kitchen. I barely know how to cook complicated stuff like this!]