Back home I complained about the fish — up here anything will do

Back home, when braised fish showed up on the table again, she used to complain. Nothing serious — just a "fish again, mum?" and then she'd eat it anyway. Now, three months into living alone in a rented room on nothing but takeout boxes, she's realised that the right to complain was never free.

One evening she got off work early and stopped by the market for some greens and a piece of fish. Sixty-five thousand đồng — cheaper than the takeout she'd been buying. So it was never about the money. Standing at the stove, with the smell of braised fish rising, she finally did the maths: her mother had cooked like that properly for eighteen years, every single day, never skipping one. She could complain because someone always cooked. Now anything will do — not because she has grown up, but because there is no one left looking after her.

Her mother still texts to ask what she's been eating. She types back "I'm eating well" while sitting in front of a box of rice gone cold. At home there were three dishes every meal. In three months her standard has dropped from three dishes to one box — and nobody made her do that. It isn't that she got used to it. She let herself go. That night she cooked three dishes, laid them out, and ate alone.

Two years in that room, and everything is still temporary: eating temporarily, sleeping temporarily, then getting used to temporary. The mattress is still on the floor, the taped box still unopened. But at home her mother never served anyone a temporary meal — not even on her most exhausted days. She learned everything about how her mother looked after people, except for one person.

My mother never cooked a half-hearted meal for anyone. I learned all of it — except my own share.

The bowls are washed and still warm in her hands. Tomorrow she plans to cook again. And you — when was the last time you cooked yourself a proper meal?