Friday.
Out of Mum and Dad's before six. Dad asleep in the armchair, blanket over his knees. Mum breathing slow and even in the next room.
Checked on both. Counted the pills against the fridge calendar one last time. Right number. Left a note on the rice cooker: Back this afternoon.
Home by seven. Shower first — the shared bathroom, free for once, no towel waiting at the door. Hot water, ten minutes, the first one spent doing nothing at all.
Came out with my hair in a towel and the kitchen smelled of toast.
A plate on the bench. Two eggs, scrambled hard, the way she likes them, not the way I do. Toast cut in triangles — she hasn't let me cut anything into triangles since she was eight. A banana, peeled halfway. A glass of water. And a sticky note, blue pen, slanted:
Eat it. Sit down. Don't just stand there.
Her door was shut, the light on underneath.
Didn't knock. Stood there with the towel dripping down my neck.
Sat down, as instructed. Ate all of it. Then ran for the car.
The shop was one long glance at the clock. Mai said nothing, just slid a coffee across the counter at ten. A lady came in to box up fish oil and calcium for her sister in Guangzhou, and I wrapped the bottles in the way I always do, and I couldn't have told you afterwards what we talked about.
Five o'clock, straight to Mum and Dad's.
Mum was at the kitchen table in her cardigan, hair combed, peeling a mandarin in one long spiral. Looked up and said, Did you sleep? You look tired.
Said I'd slept fine. She gave me the look that says she knows better.
Checked the pill count while she wasn't watching. Matched the calendar. Dad saw me do it. Neither of us said a word.
Stayed till I was sure. Not sure of what, exactly. Just sure.
On the way home, I pulled into Eastwood and got Korean. Soondubu jjigae, still bubbling in its takeaway tub. Kimchi fried rice with the egg on top, her favourite. Extra banchan, because they always give extra when you look as tired as I must have.
She was at the table when I got in, laptop open, pen behind her ear. Held up the bag. She looked at it like I'd said something in another language.
Is Grandma okay? That was the first thing.
Told her better. Back to peeling mandarins.
She let out a breath I think she'd been holding since last night. Okay, she said.
And you? I said. Did you eat anything today?
Toast, she said. Shrugged.
There's a tin of full-cream milk powder in our cupboard. The old way — Mum used to make it for me when I was studying, in a thick white mug, too sweet. Spooned it in now, stirred it with hot water until it went smooth, and put it in front of her before the rice.
She wrapped both hands round the mug. Didn't say thanks. Didn't need to.
Then, eyes on the mug, quieter than I'd ever heard her: I waited up last night. Didn't want to text again.
I looked at her.
She started to say something else. Stopped. Picked up her chopsticks.
Later, she said.