Page 21 of Echoes of Eternity

But when I spoke, I couldn’t shake the feeling that duty and obligation were ingrained in every fiber of my being. The weight of familial expectations pressed down on me, a constant reminder that no matter how far I strayed from their path, I was still tethered to their hopes. Helping out felt less like a choice and more like a responsibility I couldn’t escape—a confusing mix of emotions on my part. I loved them, there was no doubt about it. We just didn’t express it the way other Western families did, I guess.

My mother began unpacking the groceries and arranging them on the counter. I could see the relief in her eyes as she surveyed the bounty of fresh produce from the Asian store. I moved to assist her without a word, waving her off. She patted my back and left the kitchen while I began slicing vegetables and preparing a meal for later. It was comforting to return to these familiar routines, even as they were tinged with the unspoken tensions of our conversations.

“So,” my mother began, trying to keep the conversation light as she poured hot tea into delicate porcelain cups, “Work is good? You still in the same place? I heardHeang has an opening at her donut shop two streets down from here, you should go talk to her.”

Her eldest son was also a drug addict who hung around Kaito’s lackeys. I ignored her last statement and took a sip of tea. “Yes. It’s going well. We’ve had some interesting projects lately.”

My father cleared his throat, his gaze fixed on me. “You know, Mae-Mae, your mother and I have been talking.”

I braced myself. This was always a prelude to one of those conversations about life choices, and it never failed to be uncomfortable.

“We were wondering,” my mother continued hesitantly, “if you’ve thought about finding a different job? Maybe something more... traditional.”

I set my teacup down, trying to keep my expression neutral. “I’ve told you before, Ma. I’m happy with what I do. It’s not just a job for me; it’s my passion. I’m good at it.”

My father leaned forward, his voice gentle but firm. “We just want what’s best for you. You’re getting older, and it’s important to think about your future. What if you don’t find a husband? You need to have a stable job that’s respected.”

I felt a familiar frustration bubbling up. It was the same argument, recycled and regurgitated each time I came home. “Pa, I don’t want to settle for something just because it’s traditional or ‘respectable.’ I want to be happy and fulfilled in what I do. We came to the landof opportunity, so it only felt right that I pursue my dreams.”

My mother’s brow furrowed, her concern evident. “But the tattoos... They make it harder for you to meet a good man. What if people don’t take you seriously?”

I took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. “Ma, a man should love me for who I am, not because of what he thinks is acceptable or ‘normal.’ They do not do arranged marriages here, well, I’m sure some men go overseas and do it. But what I’m trying to say is that my tattoos are part of who I am, and I’m not going to change them or my job to fit someone else’s idea of what’s right.”

My father’s expression softened, but he remained unconvinced. “We understand what you are saying and that you are smart, but we worry about your future. It’s not just about finding a husband; it’s about having security and stability. A family.”

“Security and stability aren’t just about a job,” I said, my voice tinged with exasperation, rubbing my hand down my face. “They’re about being true to yourself and doing what makes you happy because you only have one life to live—our family history and circumstances taught us that. How many loved ones have we lost already? They will never have a chance at life at all. I need to live for them.”

There was a moment of silence as my parents exchanged glances, their worry palpable. I knew they meant well, but their expectations about how life should work created a constant source of tension. It pained meto feel this divide between us, the nagging fear that I was somehow letting them down. I wished it were easier for all of us to find a compromise, a middle ground where my aspirations could coexist with their hopes.

My mother finally spoke, her voice weary. “We just want you to be happy, Mae-Mae. We’re afraid you’ll face difficulties because of your choices.”

I felt a knot tighten in my chest. Their love was undeniable, yet it came wrapped in layers of concern that often felt suffocating. How could I explain that my happiness didn’t always align with their vision? It felt like a battle I fought every day, trying to carve out my own path while still honoring the sacrifices they’d made for me. I wished for understanding, for them to see that pursuing my dreams didn’t mean I was abandoning them.

“I know,” I said softly, hoping I was conveying my love for them. “But I need to follow my own path. I can’t live my life based on what others think is best for me. I need to do what makes me feel fulfilled.”

The conversation shifted to more neutral topics—family news, old friends, and upcoming holidays—but the tension lingered in the air. I could sense their residual concern.

As I prepared to leave, I awkwardly hugged my parents goodbye, a blend of relief and sadness washing over me. We weren’t a family known for public displays of affection; we preferred to show our love through actions and care for one another. They loved me deeply, but their understanding of my choices was stillconfined by their traditional values. I hoped that, over time, they would come to accept my path, but for now, I needed to stay true to myself.

Driving away from their house, I felt a heavy weight lift off my shoulders. The road ahead was uncertain, but I was committed to navigating it on my terms. My tattoos were more than just ink—they were a symbol of my journey, my struggles, and my triumphs. And no matter what anyone else thought, they were a vital part of who I was.

10

The afternoonat the tattoo shop was unusually quiet, a rare lull in the usual hustle and bustle. I leaned against the counter, flipping through a design portfolio while Chivonn worked on a detailed piece at her station, her crop top showing a wide expanse of rich, dark brown skin. Her client surely noticed it if his dreamy smile was anything to go by.

Chivonn and I had been working together for a while now, and I had come to admire her not just for her incredible skills but also for her down-to-earth nature and perceptive understanding.

Chivonn looked up from her work, her dark eyes reflecting a mix of concern and curiosity. “Hey, Mae, you’ve been kinda quiet lately. Everything okay?”

I glanced up, momentarily hesitant. Chivonn, hailing from the metropolitan area in the Midwest, had a way of cutting through pretenses with her straightforwardness. While I valued her honesty, it wasn’t always easy to openup. But her genuine concern made me feel comfortable, and I decided to take the chance.

“It’s just… family stuff,” I said, my voice lower than usual. “I’ve been visiting my parents more often, trying to help them out. But it feels like every time I go, I’m reminded of how much they don’t understand my choices.”

Chivonn set down her needle and turned fully towards me, her expression softening. “Man, I hear you. That sounds rough. You’re trying to do right by them, but it feels like you’re stuck in this weird limbo between their expectations and your own life, huh?”

I blinked, surprised by her insight. Was she some kind of mindreader? It felt like she could see right through my struggles, laying bare the conflict I carried every day. I nodded slowly, feeling a rush of relief that someone finally understood, feeling the familiar ache in my chest.

“Exactly. It’s like I’m trying to honor their sacrifices and live up to their expectations, but every visit reminds me of how disappointed they are. It’s not just about them being unhappy with my job or my tattoos—it’s about feeling like I’m failing them in some fundamental way,” I admitted.

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