The cheap one was always her share

The day my university results came out, my mother went to the market. Not one shop — three, asking the price of every single thing before she decided anything. The suitcase I had been eyeing online cost eight hundred. She picked it up, put it back down, and took the four hundred and fifty one instead.

I stood there feeling a little small about it. Until we got to the rice cookers. There she didn't ask twice, didn't walk to another shop, just took the one that cost two hundred thousand more. This one lasts, she said, you'll get four years out of it. So the haggling was never about not having money. She only haggled over the parts that were hers.

At home she packed. On top: pork floss she had made herself and a box of cold medicine — neither of them on any list. When I lifted everything out to repack it, there was an envelope at the bottom. Three million. Months of her life, tucked flat under the lining, with nothing said about it.

That night I asked why she'd bought so much. Nothing much, she said, just the things you'll need — and went out to the kitchen. She stood there a long while, put a pot of water on and never touched it. She keeps the telling small so I won't feel like I owe her anything. So I didn't ask again. I just went out and sat down next to her.

She said it was nothing much. I could count every single thing.

I still use that suitcase. The price tag she never got around to cutting off is still tied to the handle. Four hundred and fifty — she counted her own share down to the last note. Mine, she never put a price on at all. I wonder how it went with yours.