Filial Piety by Melanie Lau illustration by Sadie Hutchings
Grandma ends up on the floor again. Sheâs curled up beside her bedroom door like a cat, chin resting on her arms. Dad flips a switch, and Grandma flinches at the sting of fluorescent light. Midnight is not a good time for this. Dad stalks up to her. âčŚäťäš?â he asks quietly. YĂ o shĂŠnme. What do you want? I stand in the doorway of my bedroom, peering down the hall. I donât want to approach Dad. Heâs doing his job as the man of the house. Mom is gone, and there is no one but him to care for her mother. He pokes Grandma with his toe, and she mewls. She is the house pet. She must have slid out of the low bed, hooking her fingers into the carpet to drag herself across the room. After a decade of slow deterioration, her legs have finally given up on her. She forgets that she cannot walk. â輿洪,â Grandma says. XÄŤhĂłng. Dadâs name. Dad and I woke up to this call, a strangled sound scaring us awake. She says his name again and again, voice wavering as she goes on. Grandma presses her face down into the carpet. Dad stands over Grandma, and the scene looks scary, 21
