“Your brother’s children are very noisy.” I have four brothers, but my mother rarely uses their names when she talks to me; I’m supposed to know which one she means. This time I did: Ted, the oldest. She’d stayed at his place in Queens while I was away.

“But you had the downstairs apartment to yourself, right?”

“I was fortunate it was empty. It’s so dark, no wonder no one will rent it.”

“I think Ted and Ling-an did a nice job on it.”

“Too many rooms for one person. With such a big kitchen! Hard to find all the pots and pans.”

“Did you cook?”

“Your brother and his wife both work so hard, come home late. They order from restaurants. So expensive! I made har gow, and long-life noodles.”

“I’ll bet the kids liked that.”

“And so much lawn, so many useless flowers! I planted melons.”

“You did?”

“Your nephew helped.”

I could see that scene: my mother in a straw hat, plants dangling from each hand while ten-year-old Barry dug and mulched. Luckily, both Ted’s kids adore her. They know her frowning and finger-wagging are scams to hoodwink malicious spirits into thinking her useless, disobedient grandchildren aren’t worth stealing.

“ Flushing. Pah!” my mother finished. “Too far away.”

I sighed. She’d seen right through us. That apartment, far from being “fortunately” empty, had been built for her. My brothers and I think this fourth-floor walk-up we grew up in is getting hard for her to manage. But her refusal to leave Chinatown begins with a refusal to acknowledge she has anywhere to go.

Jet-lagged, I didn’t have energy for this argument. “I’m going to unpack, Ma. Then I’ll tell you all about the wedding.”

“You could have gotten married yourself, you were there so long. Have you eaten?”

“Not yet.”

“I made congee. There may be enough for two.”

Detouring into the kitchen, I waved at old Chow Lun, leaning over the street from his usual windowsill. I lifted the lid from a steaming pot and found enough congee for an army. The table held bowls of chopped spring onions, pickles, and dried fish.