I stare at the items on the counter. They’re useless without the main ingredients.
I sulk to the bathroom and wash my hands, still trying to think up a solution. The mattress squeaks as Mom sits up in her bed. I scurry back out.
She rubs her eyes, then looks from the kitchen counter to me. “What is all this?”
“I was going to make breakfast so you could sleep in. Chive pancakes.” I purse my lips. “But I didn’t have all the ingredients I needed.”
Realization washes across her face. Mom heads to the window. Sun streams into the room as she draws back the curtain.
“How would you feel about a trip to the beach instead? We can get food on the way to take with us, then stop at the grocery store when we head back.”
It takes me a second to remember the last time we went to the beach. We bought samosas from a food truck with Tamar and her family, watching bursts of glittering fireworks as we perched on a concrete ledge that separated the sidewalk from the sand.
That was over a year ago. There hasn’t been time to go back between my training and Mom’s work, even though she loves the beach. It reminds her of Hawaii.
I look up at Mom and nod. “Okay.”
She gestures toward the counter. “Let’s put this away together and get dressed. We’ll make the most of this nice weather while we have it.”
The underground train takes us from our home to a forested, foggy neighborhood behind Mount Sutro. We board a bus at street level that rolls through more neighborhoods on the western side of San Francisco.
A few blocks from the beach, Mom nods to me and I pull the stop cord above my head.
We stop at a deli, then a bakery. At both shops, I pull out my hongbao, refusing to let Mom pay. Surprise passes across her face as I order us sandwiches from the deli, handing over Grandma Goldie’s Chinese New Year money. By the time I order some bao at the bakery, she’s smiling.
The sun rises like a hazy disk through the fog in this part of town. Only swimmers willing to brave the icy Pacific Ocean venture past the shoreline and into the water. This may remind Mom of Hawaii, but it’s definitely not as warm.
I shiver and zip my coat up to my neck. At first, Mom and I eat our sandwiches in silence. A whoosh of salty wind tickles my face as seagulls screech overhead, searching for crumbs.
“How was your time off from practice?”
“Good.” I set what’s left of my sandwich on my lap. “I helped Mrs. Lee with some chores after I got back from Tamar’s house.” That gets me an approving nod. “And I’m still thinking about what to do with my free program. But I was wondering…” I hesitate as Mom looks at me. “I mean, I noticed that you haven’t been calling me by my name lately.”
I hold my breath, waiting for Mom’s response.
She sighs. A soft release of breath. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to call you that anymore.”
My chest gets hot. The heat creeps up my neck toward my face. “Because of what I said at the competition?”
Mom nods. “And because of my phone conversation with Mrs. Lubeck. She called you A instead of Ana-Marie.”
I look down. I never used to keep secrets. Not from anyone, but especially Mom. I have nothing left to hide, but guilt still twists tight, knowing she learned about my identity from someone else.
“I should’ve told you before you called.” I stare at the half-eaten sandwich in my lap.
“Perhaps,” Mom says. “Or I should’ve asked. Mrs. Lubeck only confirmed something I’d noticed much earlier.” This makes me look up. “You’ve always been a bit different from other children. Talented, of course, but there was something else. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was, though. I wasn’t sure how to bring it up with you—your grandmother and I didn’t have the kind of relationship where we could talk about these things.”
“You didn’t?”
“No.” Mom shakes her head. “We didn’t see eye to eye often, and it only got worse when your father and I moved to San Francisco right after high school. The distance made it easier to hide things from each other. It was years before I told her I’d converted to Judaism. I even put off telling her it hadn’t worked out between your father and me until he’d already returned to Hawaii. I didn’t want to upset her, so it was simpler to avoid certain subjects.”
That last part sounds familiar. Tiptoeing around topics is something I got good at this summer. It’s the only time I’m dainty.
Mom looks me straight in the eye. “I don’t want that to be the same for us, but change can be scary. Even for adults. When you didn’t mention anything to me, I convinced myself I was imagining things.”
“I guess we both could’ve done stuff differently.”
“Yes.”
“I miss talking to you, like we used to after skating and school.” This isn’t something I’d planned to tell her, but I’m tired of keeping secrets. Even small ones. “I know you have lots of work to do, but it feels like we barely talk anymore.”
“That wasn’t my intention. Not at all.” Her voice catches, eyes shining like the sun’s reflections on waves.
I move my sandwich to a napkin and shift to my knees, wrapping my arms around Mom’s shoulders before she can say anything else. “I know.”
“I miss our chats, too.” Mom’s voice sounds muffled against my neck.
“Do you think maybe we can switch our schedule?” I ask. “Cook first on weeknights when you get home, then extra work projects after I go to bed? I’ll help with the dishes.”
She nods against me, hair swishing.
Mom wipes her eyes with one hand as I sit back and grab my phone. “Want me to add it to our calendar?”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea.” Her smile reaches all
