Dad held the flashlight steady while I mustered my remaining strength to tighten the nuts around the sink drain. Fitting in the T-shaped pipe segment, Dad's instructions guided me in fiddling with the three or so nuts by hand so the pipe network fit together.

This job would've been easier without Monty and Shan watching us, but Google searching on Monty's laptop yielded nothing but confusion. My mistakes only grew with a phone call to my dad, who insisted on making our leaking sink drain an opportunity to "teach us important life skills a man should know." So here we were.

Liam had been Dad's helper for fixing things around the house long before Dad's knee worsened. Not me. Not the son who broke down when the washing machine splurt water everywhere. (Have you ever seen a sad washing machine? Ours looked so sad.)

My hands trembled as my brain short-circuited, and suddenly I couldn't understand what was in front of me. Pieces clumsily spun in place.

"Tai--"

"I know, tighten it--"

"Too much and it'll break," Dad said gently. He opened the faucet, and rushing water sang through the pipes.

With no dripping water and no physical conduit to channel my nerves through, I crawled out of the cramped cabinet.

"多謝," Monty said, giving a stiff bow to Dad.

"," Dad said, waving it off.

Them speaking in Cantonese triggered a pending task of mine: I had to figure out what songs to perform for a re-opening of a Vietnamese restaurant...and according to the unexpected answers to my Instagram poll, I might have to write one in Vietnamese.

Not any of my old songs, or my new ones, or the scribbled verses from childhood were ones I could remaster and work with for a celebratory occasion. The decent positive ones were in English. Meanwhile the depressing ones, while holding some aspects of the sorrowful and romantic qualities of Vietnamese 90's music, were dark and deeply personal.

Additionally, I had to consider my live audience. Quan's Restaurant and Bar was well-respected by word of mouth among the Chinatown community. While Quan pitched his branding through unconventional food choices, his mastery of staple Vietnamese dishes arguably carried his business to long-term success. This meant his primary customers were first-generation immigrants who fled Vietnam during the war, middle-age and elderly folks searching for the familiar taste of home.

Many things could have changed in five years. Demographics shifted all the time. But this felt important. Big. This couldn't just be a perfect song in my eyes. It needed to touch the hearts of the Vietnamese diaspora.

My mind went to asking Phiona, before I forgot I didn't have a music manager anymore.

"Is there anything else you boys need fixing with?" Dad asked me, looking around my apartment.

With Shan's pile of catch-up homework (from the days he'd been off school), Monty's cue cards with various coding pathways framing every possible surface (the fridge and washroom mirror did not escape exam season), and a designated chair and music stand for myself when my room became claustrophobic (or unorganized, as it was before Dad came to help clean), it did look like a disaster. Exactly how I felt today.

"Mr. Vuong, you didn't need to come--" said Shan.

"No, I did. When you grow up, it's important you know how to fix things so the people around you are safe," Dad reassured. "Has your father never taught you?"

"Ba của họ không phải là người tốt," I said and quickly guided him out the door. I couldn't bear to see Monty's face.

The hallway felt a few degrees cooler than inside the apartment. I paced. "Dad, really, thanks for coming to help us fix the sink, but you didn't need to lecture us! It was embarrassing."

Whereas Mom would have a hot fuse to blow, Dad only ever looked disappointed, and that stung more. "Má is right. You are more reactive nowadays. Did Tienne pass that trait to you?"

I reached the hallway's end and turned my head. "I haven't spoken to her," I admitted.

Not because I'd been curating content for social media, using the photo shoots and all the other assets I'd invested time and resources into selling an illusion of a trail-blazing, stereotype-defying musician of colour. Not while grappling with the fact that I might be the only person I know on the abandoned road of dreams. I hadn't allowed myself to think about those things.

"Tai. Look at me, and stop moving."

I needed to run like a well-oiled machine, because while this adrenaline still pumped through me, I could channel it in a useful way. Let it come in pitch and tones and vocalizations until my throat ran dry.

"Your music is important. No matter what others choose to do, their life is different from yours."

Like a hamster, I hadn't felt more productive and more trapped than now in a long time.

"Whatever happens,Mẹwill understand."

For a second, I stopped stimming.

"You understand, Ba. ButMẹcares about money and reputation and--"

"Her children," Dad finished. "Some day when you have kids--" I winced "--you'll see. But I must ask you a favour on her behalf."

I silently flapped my hands.

"Ông Ngoại and Bà Ngoại are flying here for Quan's restaurant opening...and because they've heard of you. On the news. Our successful son." The crow's feet of his eyes crinkled.

My grandparents...

Wait. My mom's parents?

My paternal grandparents had been heavily involved in my childhood. They doted on me and Tienne while my parents were at work and Liam and Kimmy were being honed to become the sharpest academically and street smart savvy siblings ever. Ông Nói and Bà Nội eventually moved back to Vietnam after we grew up and they got tired of language barriers and Canadian winters.

But the maternal side? As a kid I was oblivious and regarded them as the cool grandparents, the ones who'd let me stay home from school for as long as I wanted. The strange aura they brought became more palpable growing up though. Little things were left misaligned in their wake, the most obvious being how Mom acted around them. I hated how she transformed to accommodate their presence, and my short-sighted thinking and big mouth had been the catalyst of more than one fight between them.

Whenever I asked, she insisted nothing was wrong. That she loved them with their flaws. It bothered me I didn't know what those flaws were.

"I need you to cancel your plans for the next weekend and the days before your gig at Quan's. You know how your mom is when they're around," Dad said, fumbling for words. "Kimmy will talk, of course, but they are more interested in speaking to you. They want to see how your mom has managed the household."

"I need to come because I'm the son who stayed," I finished.

"Please," he said, and his voice told me if it weren't for his bad knee, he might have kneeled on the hallway carpet that harboured who-knew-how-many-germs.

I crossed my arms and looked at the closed doors lining the hallway, doors that led into the messy lives of others. "Why can't you be there for Mom? Aren't you enough?"

"I will handle most of the questions. I will be by your side," he said.

Because Mom would leave your questions hanging until they ran dry and you forgot what you wanted, or ceased to care. Dad on the other hand hadn't kept all the promises we latched onto as kids.

"I know this is last minute, Tai. You are busy. We don't have anything to give back. And your mom doesn't know I'm here to ask you this," he said softly. "But I understand. Your career comes first."

I'd cancelled or ghosted most of the gigs lined up for this week and the upcoming one. The prospect of so many eyes on me made me want to run. Run back to the people who loved and raised me...and the problems I wished didn't come attached.

When I nodded, Dad embraced me in a warm bear hug. "I didn't think you'd say yes."

I didn't have the energy to comfort him.

--

Monty raised his brows when he saw me sweep back into the apartment, disappear into my bedroom, and then reappear with a duffel bag and guitar. "You're not practising your new song for us? Thought you were stressed about it."

"Change of plans."

"Before you go--," I swept into my room, got what I needed, and shoved on my shoes "--You only used Chrome on my laptop for Googling right? Didn't open my coding game or other applications?"

Right, his coding game. His belated Christmas gift to me. I'd only halfheartedly played five minutes of it when he excitedly showed me his progress the other day.

I shook my head, muttered some excuse about family drama to explain my curt response, and plucked the keys hanging by the doorway. When I turned around, Monty was blocking the door. He spun a familiar set of keys in his hands.

"Hold your grudges but don't take my keys."

My face burned, because of course, my set of keys didn't have a clunky Legend of Zelda charm. "I'm not mad at you."

"Sure, sure."

I snatched my keys from him.

"You have a cool dad," Monty said.

"He called me a boy!" Shan crowed behind him. "Do you think he can teach me more stuff like that? Monty's useless when it comes to fixing things 'cause he always has his nose in computers and comic books."

"What did he say?" said Monty, looking at my face. "That little--Shan! I'll get you!" he roared. "And don't you think you got away with deleting my files!"

"Good luck on finals," I signed half-heartedly. "Don't give up. You're almost there."

"Shan, if you're not gonna do your homework now I'm not helping! And uh, yeah, Tai, thanks...Right back at you. I always have time for another song."

He gave a curt nod at my guitar, patiently waiting for me. It'd have to wait some more.

I closed the apartment door and stood in the hallway, listening to them argue through the walls. Yet here I was, with a loving family and bitter with responsibilities that weren't linked to my own interests.

--

Hello Tai,

I'm pleased to receive your response. An open mind is the greatest strength you can have in any creative field. And timing is not a problem. I understand you have a busy schedule. Let me know at your earliest convenience which days work for you, and my team will arrange for it.

I look forward to answering your questions so you may see where I'm coming from.

Sincerely,

Charu Dubashi

---

I barely had time to process the airport-tagged suitcases cluttering our doorway before Kimmy dragged me upstairs.

In her room, she had paired outfits lined up in her wardrobe, her jewelry stand, and an intense looking calendar that detailed all the housekeeping tasks that my older sister took care of, being the translator for our parents.

The only thing out of place in her organized room was Tienne sitting with her knees tucked on Kimmy's swivel chair. Was she sad or angry?

Kimmy pocketed the gum she was chewing and said, "Something I forgot to write on the script, Tai: The story we're going with is that Tienne's working from home and doing paperwork. No, it doesn't decrease her pay, and yes, she will eventually move back to in-person work once the person she's filling in for comes back from maternity leave. Cool?"

"I thought you didn't like paperwork," I said.

"You didn't know?" said Kimmy.

"I quit my job," Tienne said. She extended her legs and stood up. "Mom said she'll land me a job at her factory for now."

"H-How did she take the news?"

She lifted one shoulder. "You know her."

I stepped forwards. "I should have reached out to you sooner. I could have but I didn't." Sorry. Why was apologizing for something you did wrong harder than people-pleasing?

Tienne shrugged and moved past me. "Just don't tell Ông Ngoại and Bà Ngoại. Mom's going to go berserk if they find out," she said.

Kimmy groaned. "You shouldn't have told him then."

I followed Tienne down the stairs but couldn't stop her from walking out the front door, where Dad was just taking off his shoes. "She told me not to tell you," he told me apologetically.

"Why am I not surprised," I said under my breath, watching her disappear beyond the sidewalk's path.

Behind me, Kimmy looked over my shoulder. "Now she has nothing to do, she's going to start daydreaming and lash out at us for not understanding her and all that shit."

"Kimmy," Dad warned. "Keep an eye on your sister and watch your mouth."

She gave me a doubtful glance. She had always handled the family drama before.

"It won't end well, that's all I'm saying," she said finally, putting on her flats.

The midday sun filtered through the gauzy door curtains and backlit her in a sort of glow that made Kimmy the topic of family gatherings. How smart, how beautiful, how integral she was to the household's foundation. How awful she wasn't devoting one hundred and ten percent to building our parents' lives alongside her own.

And yet, and yet. When she closed the door behind her, saying Mom's parents were in the garden, the same illogical resentment I've heard pointed at my sister pooled at the back of my throat.

----

My grand entrance to the backyard patio and garden would look like this:

Ông Ngoại would exclaim how tall I was, as if his frail willowy frame didn't dwarf my own (even with kyphosis). He would guide me to sit with him, offer the cinnamon gum he always brought ever since he quit smoking, and ask for retellings on my life, while sliding in many stories of his own and recounting for the millionth time how he wished his pho restaurant business didn't die off.

Bà Ngoại would be akin to a wallflower dressed in a floral pantsuit. She would talk to my parents more than me, almost ignoring my presence, and I'd almost forget hers--except when she'd wheel over and give unsolicited advice. She would frequently suggest I buy a piece of jade jewelry to wear for luck, gesturing to her deep green jade stud earrings and bangle. Mom never wore her bangle because of her factory job, while Kimmy had bought one wide enough to slip it past her elbow to not interfere with lab work.

I would not betray my doubts. I would paint my career by drawing upon the American Dream-esque vocabulary full of hard work and paving a better future.

So when I walked to the garden with Dad, I didn't expect Mom and her parents to be sitting amicably around the patio table under the umbrella's shade, eating cubes of sliced mango and sipping cà phê, talking about things I did not understand.

"Using the hụi to fund your son's far-fetched dreams...Quý, I did not think you were that desperate," Bà Ngoại said, sipping her cà phê while her gaze slid to Dad. She didn't seem to notice me.

Ông Ngoại leaned back. "Are we so unloved by our grandchildren? Did none of them want to show their faces to us?"

Mom paused while peeling another mango. She looked at the space between the table and her knife. "I asked my girls to shop for cooking ingredients. And Tai is so busy these days, I am surprised he was able to cancel his plans."

Dad frowned and turned to his involuntary invisible son. I was sure he saw the sliver of my outline. "He's in the washroom," he said finally. "He would not carelessly forget an important occasion. Such is the same sentiment Quý and I felt while raising our kids: A parent would do anything for their child."

"Anything," Ông Ngoại agreed. "But such optimism is the privilege of your cityfolk, not us humble villagers. Take a seat, take a seat."

Heart pounding, I stepped back inside before he slid the patio door closed. Bird sounds, the scent of mint and the rustling of leaves in the wind was replaced by the house's familiar low hum. Dad eased into one of the wicker chairs. He drew up another one positioned so I could walk outside and slide right in, too. Through the muffled glass, Ông Ngoại made a comment about getting Dad's knee checked out and sticking to his physio routines.

"Ba, Ma, if you are only here to insult my family--" Mom started.

"Your family? How could you say that?" Bà Ngoại said, slapping the table so the mango plate rattled. "You want to cut us off? I should have known you passed all of your weaknesses onto Liam, the poor boy."

"Xin lỗi, xin lỗi," Mom said, eying the endangered plate.

Ông Ngoại swirled his glass of cà phê, the ice clinking inside. "We look out for you, Quý, because so often you make mistakes and your pride holds you back from admitting so. It is inevitable we would come to make sure you and your children are all right."

"I appreciate the flight here was tedious," Mom said passively.

Bà Ngoại surveyed her surroundings, holding the silence against Mom. Finally, she replied, "Very much so. I could only think of one reason why you were so against our generous offer to come, and that's because you're in denial of the state of the family.

"Tienne is a flighty girl who doesn't know how to grow up--I've always told you that coddling does her no good. As for Kimmy! Always smiling, always around, but there is no warmth. And Liam--"

"Liam left of his own accord," Dad said, raising his voice ever so slightly. "We did everything we could to contact him. I haven't heard you doing the same. Quý can confirm that with you."

An intense all-way eye-contact battle.

Ông Ngoại gave a rehearsed chuckle. "You have already assimilated to leaning on Western excuses, eh Diệu?" In an instant his light hearted tone shifted. "To absolve yourself of familial duties is cowardly."

"And to imply investing in our child's future is not the important purpose of a hui? Even more so," Dad said.

I watched Mom get smaller and smaller, blending into the eye of this storm. Say something.

But she never did.

Just dealing with sensory issues and the misaligned infrastructure of society put my energy levels on a short leash. But dealing with other people's problems?

I wished I could say I did it out of love and compassion. Instead, guilt pushed me out of the comforting embrace of invisibility.

Stepping out of the shadows, I wiped my sweaty palm and slid open the patio door as just Ông Ngoại replied, "I didn't see him for a risk-taker. I'd assumed he likes routine and predictability--the safer options..."

Heads swiveled in my direction. The gentle pockets of sunlight that reached us felt like fire on my skin. "Chào Ông Ngoại, chào Bà Ngoại," I said quietly as I took a seat. Following the script would be a betrayal to my mom. Why shouldn't I address their horrible accusations? And what was a hụi?

It'd make things worse, I knew. I've finally understood that pattern after many eavesdropping occurrences.

"How have you been? The last time we met was f-five years ago," I asked. Pulling my lips into a smile. Widening my eyes so they shone just a bit brighter. Leaning my posture forward. Small edits, the touch-ups made a big difference.

"Excellent," Ông Ngoại said. "This visit was long overdue. I wanted to show you something. Look at what your Bà Ngoại found the other day."

He procured an iPad from his jacket. By the time he navigated himself to a specific Youtube video, my brows must have disappeared into my hairline, because he gave a throaty chuckle. "Contrary to what your Mom might have you believe, we are not stuck in the past. We adapt, in our own ways."

My thready, microphone-screeching voice spoke from the iPad's speakers. "Hi. I'm Tài Vương, coming from Mississauga. I'll be singing a few songs from my first and latest album..."

There were more videos. More milestones, from years ago, at gigs I'd forgotten I performed at. The biggest videos were of course the ones at Hidden Stars, Radio For Equality, and at Phiona's recommended places. But the one that shocked me, and even my parents (who had seen each and every video with my face in it) craned their necks, was a Vietnamese-Canadian news clip with pictures of my "professional" photos alongside mentions of Charu Dubashi and--wait for it--my Lunar New Year collaboration with Gülay. Her song, sung by me.

Red and gold adorn the heavens and earthly souls

Yours glows brightly, the brightest beacon I follow

Through this sea of lights

You show me where your heart lives

With âng-paus and mandarins in our hands

Yusheng tossed by twenty hands of theirs

Today, home is a flood of

Warmth...

That couldn't be the only thing they watched. My voice could've captured the tenderness in Gülay's lyrics better, but what about my own songs?

Ông Ngoại paused the video clip. "People know you." I nodded, wondering where this was going. "How much do you earn? How does this...venture operate?"

So I told them. How I found my musical niche and what audience liked what I was good at. I sang to be free, while my listeners (I hoped) came to my songs to feel seen and less alone. How I needed to diversify income streams, something I was working on.

Ông Ngoại and Bà Ngoại were almost exclusively quiet, save for chewing on mango slices. Unlike Mom, who jumped to interject here and there (stopped by Dad), it was just me, stammering and explaining. When I lost my train of thought, Dad was there, nodding at me to go on. He made everything feel better just by being by my side.

When I was done, Ông Ngoại said, "Your boy is ambitious."

"Then it's fitting he would sing at Quan's restaurant," Dad put in. "Both of them, very alike. Hard-headed and brave. You saw how successful he has become."

"But is he supposed to be famous, like the ca sĩ on Paris by Night?" Bà Ngoại mused. "It doesn't sound like the pay matches the work. Why pursue a career where you are stuck like the rest of us, toiling away? Did your mother push this onto you?" she asked me.

I suppressed a scoff. "Why would she? I just can't focus or force myself to work a job I hate. Otherwise my mind would wander or I'd just never grasp the skills in time."

The formal language, the citations of peer-reviewed literature floated at the back of my eyes as I spewed my automatic answer. The distinction of having a narrow range of interests versus being narrow-minded.

I was sinking like quicksand in this impossible conversation.

Ông Ngoại's chair scraped as he stood up. "Tai. You are not understanding. Let me talk with you in the garden."

I shot a look of help to my parents.

Mom gestured for me to go. I had to hold back tears when she held me close and spoke in my ear. "Do not promise him anything."

I followed Ông Ngoại, keeping a respectful distance behind him as he carefully stepped on the winding cobblestone path, each step supported by his cane. We passed the plots of mexican mint, magenta plants, and potted aloe vera, until he stopped at Mom's greatest pride: our cherry tomato plant.

"Trời ơi, it hasn't grown," he muttered.

Last year she had coaxed to climb along the giant bamboo sticks without toppling down, and it was truly a sight to behold. Now that it was spring again, she had taken the seedlings from indoors and planted them.

"It shouldn't be growing right now. If it grows too fast, it'll die," I said, staring at our bare fence while taking peeks at my grandfather. It was either this or craning my neck to look at the plants-to-be.

"I wonder if your mom will remember to prune the little leaves correctly," he said, ignoring me. "She is either very soft, or too harsh on everything around her.

"It is...admirable you are lifting yourself to greater heights, Tai. As your grandfather it makes me proud to see at least one of our kids flourishing." I smiled despite myself. "But as a parent, I worry. Being humble and self-aware is very important for character. I worry that your blindness into stardom will take it away, and I wish I had done more to protect your mom from it."

Was this typical grandparent nonsense logic? "I don't follow."

He clasped his hands behind his back and looked at me. "Your mom wanted to be a singer."

A beat.

"She never believed a career could be made out of it," I stammered.

"Oh no, not at all. Not back in our days. Back when she was young and naive, she took private lessons behind our backs, sought her higher-income friends to teach her piano. Started to disregard her chores and duties. She was never good enough of course, and even if one has skill--" he paused "--you needed luck. Beauty. Intelligence. But yourMẹknew nothing," he sighed, rubbing his forehead. "She was just a little girl who wanted to be like the singers on TV."

All this time. All this time she could have nurtured the same dream she once had.

"But you," he continued. His hint of a grin showed silver and gold plated teeth. "Your circumstances are different. Your mother wanted to live a fantasy dream. You seized it. You have true talent and it shows.

"And yet. And yet, I worry," he sighed. "When I leave this world, who will be there to protect my daughter? My son-in-law? Whatever your mother wishes for, Liam is not coming back. And your sisters, although responsible, can be unreliable. You, Tai, must make sure you look out for your family. Do not let fame and fortune blind you," he warned.

I didn't know how long I stood there, white noise overtaking the sounds and sensations around me.

This was ridiculous. Forget the script.

"That responsibility goes to Kimmy," I said loudly, hoping my parents would take the cue and save this conversation before I destroyed it. "She knows so much more than I do! She has a stable job and can deal with--with the real world." She knew more about my parents than I had ever bothered to learn.

Ông Ngoại scoffed. "You give her too much credit."

"Besides," I pushed on, "my parents wouldn't ever expect me of that for them. I--that's not in me. I'm sure other Autistic people can make great caregivers and shoulder that type of responsibility. But I have my career to think about--my whole life in front of me! As long as I have a job...that's all I need to do."

His mouth set in a line.

I felt so small, compared to this well-dressed man whose even smaller body must contain incomprehensible wisdom. My face burned from the shame of hating all the words he threw at me.

I shouldn't be this mad at my grandfather. My grandfather. He was family, aging and near the end of his life. This was the part where resolution was found. Where everything wrapped up nicely and we bonded over the fragility of life, forgetting the petty grudges that kept us apart.

Did it hurt because he was wrong, or because he was right?

"Perhaps," he said finally, looking around the young garden. Asides from the herb section the soil was fresh and bare. "And I know, you are Autistic. You cannot do everything by yourself. But it means you must succeed, and that is achieved by earning enough to support your family as they have supported you."

I couldn't tell him. How I'd latched onto the idea of success as my own happiness and satisfaction, not the money and attention that I felt Charu was pushing for back when I first met them. At the time it was easy to reject; now I felt like a fool.

No wonder Phiona had quit music. As much as she preached of creating art for the sake of art, for reaching your own visions, it came with a cost.

"I..."

Bà Ngoại was trying to get up from her wheelchair. My parents scrambled to unfold her walker, boost her by the arms, all while enduring Bà Ngoại's precise demands. Looked like she needed to go to the washroom.

I watched the elaborate operation for a basic human function. For one person.

That would be my parents one day.

"Your grandmother is right to worry about financial stability. Your parents, too, but they love you too much to speak the truth."

I closed my eyes. They had kept so many things from me. "Ông Ngoại, what's a hụi?"

"It is like a bank account for the poor," he said. "We Vietnamese look out for one another. Each month we put in a certain amount. Like a mutual fund, yes? Should someone fall into hard times or want to start a business, they take out the money by paying everyone back a percentage."

Clouds covered the sky. The garden's vibrant colours faded. "So that's how everyone knows everyone's business," I said, looking down.

"Yes. Tai, I was too harsh on your parents today. Forgive me. I know, not everything is the same as it was back then. I just worry that you will forget your roots. It can be easy for a young man like you to earn everything for yourself, and claim fortune's luck as your own. Just remember they love you. We love you."

I stayed in the garden long after Ông Ngoại said he'd go inside because he was getting chilly from the strong southwards wind. The mostly empty garden held potential for life, and the inevitability of death. Mom worked herself to the bone sometimes on this little garden while we were gone.

"Con," Mom said, her slight figure appearing beside me. "Why are you looking at nothing? Tell me what Ông Ngoại said."

"You wanted to be a singer," I said, my vision blurring, "but pushed that pain onto me."

"Oh, con.Mẹis sorry. I feared failing would hurt you more."

Tears fell as I choked on my sobs. "What happens if I do fail, Má? You used the hụi for me--"

"And?" she snapped. "So many people throw their portion of the hụi away. Greed. Stupidity. Selfishness. An endless cycle of vices!"

She crouched in front of the herbs and started ripping them out of the ground. Green and purple hues of lá tía tô, húng cây, ngò gai, and rau dền piled on the cobblestone walkway, covering the dark spots where my tears landed.

"Mom, we don't need that much--"

"I have two extra people to serve tonight," she snapped.

"Could...could you help me write a song in Vietnamese?" I mumbled.

"What? Speak to your mother properly. Better yet, help her."

As I reached for the mound of familiar scented herbs, she turned and pointed a spiky stalk of ngò gai at me.

"You are a man, Tai. Never talk like you don't deserve the world."