Small Victories
Chen's alarm cut through the stillness of his dorm at 6:00 a.m. He groaned, swiped it silent, and lay there staring at the ceiling. The faint smell of burnt congee lingered from last night's attempt to replicate his mother's recipe. His father's text from the previous evening still glowed on his phone:
Dad: Got a new recipe. Less burnt this time. Dinner?
He hadn't replied.
Eli, his roommate, slept across the room, his philosophy textbook flung over his face. Chen envied how he could sleep through anything.
Jia: Miguel's car broke down. Can you pick him up?
Chen hoisted himself out of bed, grabbing a paint-stained hoodie that Jia had worn in on his last mural session.
2. The Auto Shop Detour
The auto shop reeked of grease and stale coffee. Miguel was standing outside, kicking a tire on his dented sedan.
"Alternator's dead," he muttered. "Can't afford a new one."
Chen tossed him a gas station coffee. "Luna's got a spare bike. Use it."
Miguel snorted. "She'll charge me rent."
They drove in silence until Miguel said, "Your dad's been at the diner every morning. Asks about you.
Chen gripped the wheel tightly. "What'd you tell him?"
"That you're still a disaster."
Chen smirked. "True."
Chen's father was waiting in the apartment, his work clothes covered by an apron, ingredients spread across the counter.
"Congee," he said, awkwardly brandishing a wooden spoon. "Your mom's way. No burning."
Chen hesitated, then tied on an apron. "You chop the ginger. I'll handle the rice.
They shuffled around each other like planets in orbit—awkward, careful. When the rice stuck to the pot, his dad laughed, a sound so strange that it surprised them both.
"She'd say it's 'rustic,'" Chen said, scraping the burnt parts.
His dad smiled. "Rustic. Yeah."
They ate in silence, the congee a combination of grainy undercooking and edges that were burnt to a crisp. It tasted like progress.
Jia's new mural sprawled across the motel's side wall a mosaic of their faces woven into the oak tree's roots. Chen found her perched on a scaffold, hair dusted with gold paint.
"It's missing something," she said, tossing him a brush.
He dabbed crimson onto a crane's wing. "What?"
"You'll see."
They painted until sunset, the mural swallowing their laughter and quiet pauses. As they stepped back, Chen noticed it—a tiny handprint in the corner, his mother's initials tucked into the bark.
"For her," Jia said softly.
Chen's throat tightened. "Thanks."
Miguel's shift at the auto shop ended in disaster. A customer's luxury SUV, left in his care, had a scratched fender. The owner screamed, threatening a lawsuit.
"It wasn't me!" Miguel argued, but the boss docked his pay anyway.
Luna found him in the park, hurling rocks at the oak tree.
"Stop before you hurt yourself," she said, tossing him a basketball. "Play me."
They shot hoops until Miguel's anger dissolved into exhaustion. "Why does everything blow up?"
"Because life's an asshole," Luna said. "But you're tougher."
He almost smiled.
Luna organized a park clean up,a ruse to drag everyone back together. Rafi showed up with a boom box blasting 2000s pop. Sophia brought gloves and a grim determination to "sanitize nature."
Chen's dad arrived with trash bags and a hesitant wave.
"Heard you needed help," he said to Chen.
They worked side by side, filling bags with litter. When Chen found a rusted keychain shaped like a crane, his dad said, "Keep it. For luck."
By afternoon, the park gleamed. Luna unveiled a new plaque under the oak: "Li Wei Memorial Garden."
"Cheesy," Rafi said, but his eyes were bright.
That night, Chen flipped through his mother's journal. A loose page fluttered out a letter he'd never seen.
"My dearest Chen,
If you're reading this, I'm gone. But look around. The oak tree, your friends, even your dad's terrible cooking they're all pieces of me. You don't have to hold the grief alone. Let them help.
Keep living, my stubborn boy.
Love,
Mom
Rain tapped the window as Chen pressed the letter to his chest.
Jia texted at midnight: Mural's done. Bring your dad.
They stood under the oak tree at dawn. The mural now featured a new crane, its wings scribbled with his mother's handwriting: "Keep living."
Chen's dad wrote out the words. "She'd love this."
"Yeah," Chen said. "She would."
Miguel's boss called a regular customer offered him freelance mechanic work. Luna loaned him her bike "indefinitely" (with a 10% interest joke).
At the cafe, Chen served the biology girl again. This time, she looked up. "Thanks. For the coffee."
He nodded. "Anytime."
Chen texted his dad: Dinner again?
The reply was instant: Your turn to cook.
He laughed, pulling out the burnt congee recipe.
Chen had had a craving for cooking dinner to his dad's dismay. Stuck to the ceiling was what was supposed to be fluffy cooked rice; across the counter spilled soy sauce drops, and to top it off, the biting smell of burnt smoke filled the air.
"That's. eatable," the dad said when poking at burnt remains of where stir-fry vegetables were expected to be left.
"Liar," Chen responded, though one couldn't even help it-that laughter welled up.
His father chuckled. "Your mom would have loved it. She always did like a good kitchen catastrophe."
They sat silently, the char cooking surprisingly good for how it looked.
Miguel's very first freelance client was a disaster. The customer's car broke down halfway home, and Miguel spent hours in the rain fixing it.
"I am done," he said, crashing onto Luna's couch. "I cannot continue to do this.".
"You can," Luna said, tossing him a towel. "You're just rusty."
"I'm not rusty. I'm cursed."
She smirked. "Then break the curse."
Jia's mural became a local sensation. People stopped to take photos, and the motel owner even offered her a commission for another piece.
"It's not about the money," Jia said, staring at the mural. "It's about… this."
Chen nodded. "It's us."
They stood wordless, the painting speaking of suffering and survival simultaneously.
Chen found a response to his mother's letter in her diary.
"My dearest Chen,
I am proud of you. Carry on.
Love,
Mom"
He clutched the letter to his chest