CHAPTER 18
I doubt even God wakes up at five in the morning. I remember back when I was a kid. Mom would burst through my door like a tsunami every day at six sharp, straightening up my piles of laundry, clucking her tongue over the wadded paper scraps on my nightstand, grumbling in Cantonese as she tidied up the clutter on my desk. Maybe that’s why I have such a hard time staying organized today. Mom always handled all that stuff for me.
It’s not like she wouldn’t still do that for me now, actually. I can’t tell you how many times she calls to try to convince me to move in with her. She always makes it about me, which is why I refuse. If she were to come right out and say something like, you know, it’s awful lonely here, and I would love to have you come spend more time with me, I might
