Author Page
Thank you for watching my first book: “Chongqing Family”. I’m Quinn from Chongqing and I am an English-major student in Southwest University. About myself, I want to tell you my audience concerning my simple life in this book and have fun with you. This book I wrote is a funny book for all people and no matter you are kids or adults you will find some fun time in reading it. Because I am an emotional people, I often catch the little things in my life and find the strong emotion behind them, which makes me outstanding in depicting figures’inner emotion and talks. I have a simple life but it does not mean that my life is smoothing without any troubles, incidents, and obstacles. Actually, I can called my family life “hard”to some extent because there are really many stories happen here and I can’t wait to share that with you in this book. I hope that less outgoing people will like this book because I was a very very shy people before I entered my college life and you can definitely find some experience in common with you like making new friends in a new environment. See you in my book!
We Are Family
I’m Quinn from Chongqing province in China. I love my family so much that I can’t wait to make an introduction of them: My mom from Guizhou province is a diligent and strong woman who takes charge of our home and our noodle restaurant. She is always careful about every family member as a master in our house. I love my mom. My dad is a local man and he is also a very strong man who can lift many heavy things but I cannot do that. Besides, having found jobs in many other places, my dad is an experienced man in driving, electrician, and cooking. I love my dad. My elder sister, Lily, is a beautiful girl. Not good at academic performance, she is now working with my parents in our restaurant and helps mom and dad a lot. My elder sister loves traveling and she have traveled many places like South Korean. She is a big fan of K-pop music and loves many boys groups. In her spare time, she likes listening to K-pop music and watching dance performance. She is also a nice dancer. I love my elder sister too.
We have lived in Chongqing for more than 18 years and we have our own restaurant business to make a living. We are famous for cheap and delicious Chongqing spicy noodles in our community and attract so many consumers to buy one. We love our restaurant. Running a noodle restaurant is not an easy thing because you have to do a lot preparations to make a bowl of spicy Chongqing noodle. We need all kinds of spice, vegetables, and meat. So, the spicy Chongqing noodle is really delicious. Our business is good all the time especially in autumn and winter. Everything in my family is centered on noodle.
Let me tell you more stories concerning myself. I was born in Valentine’s Day and I was kind of different: I was weak. I was always weak at all sports including football, basketball, and badminton. It seems that I was born to no sports one. So, when I entered primary school, the P. E. class was my nightmare every week because I really hated sports. But, there was another reason and this was the most important one: I had no friends in my class. Every P.E. class after the teacher completing all the exercise work, it was time to play freely in the playground and I was really fearful about this. No one played with me. I tried to make friends with boys in my class but failed. Why? I was too shy to speak clearly to make myself understood. Besides, I felt isolated when staying other boys in my age. I was really different with them. I didn’t like sports, playing games, and any boyish activities. So, my teachers and parents once said to me: I was like girl. Did I? I did. I think that I am influenced by my elder sister because I played with her at the most time of my childhood. That make sense.
After entering the junior high school, I came to find what I am. I actually made friends but not with boys. I had friendship with two girls. We are not boyfriend and girlfriend. We are just best friends. I feel sorry that I don’t remember their name. What a shame! They were my best friends but now I lose contact with them. Three of us stayed together all the time. We had classes together, had lunch together, played together, did homework together, and went back home together. We have continued on this routine for three years. But, we broke after the graduation of junior high school. I lost my best friend for the first time.
The next stage of life is the senior high school, which is also the most unforgettable time for me. With experience in junior high school, I concentrated on studying from the first of senior high school and also became cautious about keeping my private secret: my puppy love. I still found it difficult for me to make friends with other boys in my class because of lack of common interests. At that time, I considered studying as the only way to make me outstanding and known in the class and spent all my school time on studying but not playing or chatting with my classmates. It was evident that I was still very shy but I truly became a little more confident when my rank in my class was high. But all the things were different after I entered a new class in my 11thgrade full of girls with only five boys. With no friends here, I was indulged in computer games and my academic performance became bad. I don’t know why my personality changed at that time. Maybe it is due to the influence chemicals in my body and my pent-up emotion. However, I changed myself again after the strike of the pandemic. I was not addicted to computers any more and turned to focus on my studying. After coming back to the school, I totally contributed myself to studying. Fortunately, I succeeded in entering my dreaming college: Southwest University. That’s all about me. Let me take you into my family!
The First Day
Today was the day. The sun hadn't yet peeled back the deep blue veil of night over Chongqing when my eyes flickered open, not to my alarm, but to a familiar, restless energy humming in my chest. Today was my first day at university. A kaleidoscope of emotions had swirled within me for weeks—excitement, trepidation, a fierce longing for independence tinged with the sweet ache of leaving home. Last night, this cocktail had rendered sleep a distant stranger. I’d lain in bed for hours, watching the shifting patterns of city light on my ceiling, imagining lecture halls, libraries, and faces of future friends. Now, in the pre-dawn gloom, I felt the consequence: a thick, cottony drowsiness wrapped around my mind, and a tiredness that weighed on my limbs.
But it didn't matter. In our house, on days of momentous import, a force of nature superseded even the most stubborn fatigue: my mom. Whenever a "big and important event" loomed on the horizon—a school exam, a festival, a family trip—she transformed into our human alarm clock, her internal radar finely tuned to prevent any possibility of lateness. Sure enough, just as the first sliver of gray light touched my window, the door creaked open. "Quinn? Time to get up. Don't linger." Her voice was a soft but insistent melody. She didn't need to say more; years of training had conditioned my response. I dragged myself upright.
The house was already stirring with a purposeful quiet. From the kitchen drifted the unmistakable, glorious scent that formed the bedrock of my childhood: the complex, aromatic, slightly pungent smell of Chongqing spicy noodles being prepared. My mom, ever the master of our domestic universe, had been up for an hour. By the time I stumbled into the small, warm kitchen, rubbing my eyes, a steaming bowl awaited me on the table. It was a masterpiece—springy wheat noodles submerged in a vibrant red broth, topped with a fragrant minced pork topping, a handful of bright green bok choy, a perfectly fried golden egg, and a sprinkling of finely chopped scallions and toasted peanuts. "Eat. It will ground you," she said, placing a pair of chopsticks next to the bowl. It was more than breakfast; it was a ritual, a taste of home to anchor me before I launched into the unknown. This was my favorite and perfect send-off.
The spicy, numbing heat of the first few bites jolted my system awake. Following tradition, I treated myself to a cup of strong, icy black coffee afterwards, the bitter cold shock fighting the lingering drowsiness. As I sipped, my mom moved through the small apartment like a gentle whirlwind, engaged in the final, meticulous checklist. Her hands flitted over my luggage—a sturdy suitcase and a bulging backpack—tugging zippers, pressing on pockets. "Do you have your ID card? I can't find it in my bag!" she suddenly exclaimed, her brow furrowed with genuine concern as she rummaged through her own purse, which held her identification and, undoubtedly, a small pharmacy's worth of "just-in-case" medicines for me.
"Yes, Mom," I replied, trying to inject calm into my voice. "I put it in the inner pocket of my schoolbag last night. I double-checked. Take it easy." She was, without a doubt, far more anxious and nervous than I was. It felt as if she were the one being launched into a new life, not me. Her love was a tangible, sometimes smothering, always present force.
"Are you absolutely sure? Check it again. We won't have time to turn back if we forget it," she insisted, her words coming in a hurried stream. She was right, of course. The clock was ticking. My initial brave plan to register at the university entirely on my own had been gently but firmly vetoed weeks ago. "How will you manage your luggage alone? And what about cleaning your dorm? You've never had to scrub a bathroom!" Mom's practical concerns had overruled my fledgling desire for solo adventuring. Part of me was irritated; a larger, secret part was profoundly relieved.
The journey to Southwest University became our first shared adventure of the day. Stepping outside, we were met with Chongqing's infamous morning traffic—a honking, barely-moving river of metal. Our taxi crawled for ten frustrating minutes before Mom and I exchanged a look of silent agreement. "Subway," we said in unison. It was faster, predictable. Navigating the crowded station with our heavy luggage was a clumsy dance, but soon we were on the train, finding two precious seats together.
The route on my phone estimated an hour's travel—a significant trek through the city's belly. I had never been on the subway for so long. To pass the time while waiting on the platform, we fell into our own little worlds. Mom pulled out her phone, her fingers (which could knead dough with lightning speed and perfect precision) moving with careful deliberation over the screen. She was engrossed in short videos on Douyin (Tik Tok), her face occasionally breaking into a soft smile at a funny pet clip or a cooking tutorial. I’d seen her struggle with technology for years; despite numerous patient lessons from Lily and me on using phones, tablets, and video calls, it never came naturally to her. It was a small comfort that she had at least mastered this form of entertainment, though I sometimes wondered if it was entirely a good thing. My dad, after all, had succumbed to a deep addiction to historical dramas on his phone, a habit we were constantly battling for the sake of his declining eyesight.
I, on the other hand, lost myself in a mobile game, the bright colors and simple tasks a welcome distraction from my churning nerves. The subway car rattled and swayed, a symphony of mechanical noise and snatches of a hundred different conversations. I watched the city blur past the dark windows in glimpses—stations flashing by, crowds swapping places, a microcosm of life in constant, hurried motion.
After what felt like an eternity, we emerged from the underground into the bright sunlight of the university district, hauling our luggage up the final flight of stairs, tired but buzzing with a renewed excitement. The immediate mission was clear: find the university and drop our burdens. We were both starving, and the thought of dragging our bags to a lunch spot was unbearable. Following signs and the general flow of other students and families similarly laden, we soon stood before the grand gate of Southwest University.
A wave of awe washed over me. Though I had diligently searched for images and facts online, nothing prepared me for the physical reality. The gate was imposing and modern, with the university's name etched in bold characters. Beyond it, wide tree-lined avenues stretched into the distance, dotted with impressive academic buildings of red brick and glass. Lush greenery and colorful flower beds were everywhere. "Wow…" my mom breathed beside me, her voice full of wonder. "It's so big, so beautiful, honey." She immediately fumbled for her phone, not to check messages, but to take pictures—of the gate, of the sign, of me standing awkwardly in front of it, my grin threatening to split my face. "Smile! Your dad and Lily will want to see everything!"
The next steps passed in a happy blur. We found my dormitory building—a tall, functional structure—and located the office where a bored-looking senior student handed me a key. My room was on the second floor, a blessing. With a deep breath, I knocked on door 207. A moment later, it swung open, revealing a tall, lanky boy with glasses and a mop of messy hair. He looked as nervous as I felt. "Hello? Do you… live here too?" he asked, his voice friendly.
A surge of pure relief and excitement hit me. "Yes! I'm Quinn. Nice to meet you!" I replied, my grin feeling more natural now.
Entering the small, rectangular room, I saw two bunk beds, two desks, and two closets. It was sparse, a little dusty, and smelled faintly of fresh paint and old wood. It was perfect. While my mom immediately set to work like a cleaning tornado—attacking my assigned bed, desk, and closet with a wet cloth she had miraculously produced from her bag—I started unpacking. My new roommate, whose name was Henry, did the same. We talked in fits and starts, the conversation stilted at first but gradually warming. We discovered a shared, passionate love for music, though his taste leaned more towards indie rock while mine was more eclectic. That common thread was enough. By the time our spaces were roughly organized, we were chatting more easily, the initial ice broken.
The afternoon was spent with Mom. We had a simple, surprisingly tasty lunch in the vast university canteen, surrounded by the buzzing energy of thousands of students. Afterwards, we took a long, meandering walk around part of the campus. She pointed out every little thing—a beautiful grove of trees, a pretty lake with ducks, a modern-looking library. She was storing up memories, imprinting this place that would be my home onto her heart.
But all too soon, the sun began to dip lower in the sky. It was time for her to leave. Standing back at the university gate, the reality of separation descended. Her eyes grew shiny, though she blinked rapidly, maintaining a brave smile. "Study hard. Eat well. Call us anytime," she said, her voice thick. I hugged her tightly, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of home—noodles, laundry soap, and her faint floral perfume. "I will, Mom. Thank you for everything." I watched her walk towards the taxi stand, turning back to wave twice until she was out of sight.
A profound loneliness, sharp and sudden, pierced my excitement. It was my first time leaving the sweet, noisy, loving confines of my family to live somewhere else for an extended period. The weight of that independence felt both exhilarating and terrifyingly heavy. That night, in the unfamiliar dorm room, the silence felt loud. Henry and I talked in the dark for a long time, sharing stories about our families, our hometowns, our anxieties about classes starting tomorrow. Our whispered conversation in the dark was a lifeline, the first thread in a new tapestry of friendship. It was the end of my first day, and the true beginning of everything else.
The Phone Battle
Life at Southwest University settled into a rhythm quicker than I had imagined. Classes, library sessions, late-night talks with Henry about everything from philosophy to the best local noodle shops—it all felt new yet gradually comforting. But back home, the familiar, intricate dynamics of my family continued to turn, sometimes clashing in ways only we could understand, their echoes reaching me through weekly video calls and hurried texts.
It was a Friday evening when I video-called home, craving the sight of our cramped, lively living room. Mom answered, her face filling the screen, smiling warmly but with a hint of exhaustion lining her eyes. “Quinn! How are you? Are you eating enough? You look thin!” Before I could even utter a proper greeting, raised voices erupted in the background, sharp and familiar.
“Give it to me, Dad! You’ve been watching that screen for three hours straight! Your eyes are going to fall out!” That was Lily, her tone a mix of command and deep concern.
“It’s my phone, and I’m relaxing after a long day! The restaurant was packed—I’m entitled to some quiet!” Dad’s deeper voice boomed, defensive and stubborn.
Mom sighed, a world-weary sound I knew well, and turned the camera slightly, giving me a panoramic view of the living room battlefield. I could see Dad slumped in his worn-out armchair, phone held close to his face, the blue light illuminating his features. Lily stood over him, hands planted firmly on her hips, her expression a storm of frustration and love.
“What’s going on this time?” I asked, already knowing the script but needing to hear it.
“Your dad’s new historical drama,” Mom explained, keeping her voice low. “Forty episodes. He’s on his second run-through. He watches until midnight, even after we close the shop. His eyes… he’s started getting headaches, and he squints when reading the supplier invoices. Lily’s been on him about it for a week, but you know your father. Once he digs in, he’s like a rock.”
I did. Dad was a man of few words but immovable habits. Physical labor, fixing things, providing—that was his language. When he found a rare source of passive entertainment, he clung to it with the same determination he applied to everything. Mom had always been the diplomat, the soft buffer between his quiet stubbornness and Lily’s passionate, sometimes volcanic, interventions.
“Dad, you promised Mom you’d cut down after the last time!” Lily insisted, her voice rising. She reached for the phone. Dad pulled it away like a child guarding a toy, his brows furrowing into a deep V.
“I’m a grown man, Lily. I don’t need my daughter treating me like a naughty schoolboy.” His words were clipped, a sign he was truly irritated.
“But your eyes! Mom said you couldn’t even see the chili powder label clearly yesterday! What if you mix up the spices? What if you hurt yourself?” Lily’s worry spilled over into anger, a common transition for her.
“My eyes are fine! A little tired, that’s all! You worry too much about everything!” Dad fired back, his own patience snapping. “You don’t understand the pressure of keeping this place running, of making sure everyone is fed and bills are paid. This,” he shook the phone slightly, “this is my few minutes of peace. Is that too much to ask?”
The argument escalated rapidly, losing its specific focus and spiraling into older, deeper grievances. Lily accused Dad of being irresponsible, of not caring about his health, of setting a bad example for me (even though I wasn’t there). Dad retorted that she didn’t appreciate his years of back-breaking work, that she was too critical, that she wanted to control everyone in the house. Mom tried to interject—“Please, both of you, lower your voices, the neighbors…”—but her words were lost in the crossfire.
I watched, a silent spectator through a digital window, feeling a familiar knot of helplessness in my stomach. This wasn’t new. Lily, for all her love of K-pop and travel dreams, had a fierce, maternal protectiveness over the family. It often manifested as criticism, a desire to fix and optimize. Dad, though gentle with me and Mom, had a tough, unyielding core when he felt his authority or his few pleasures were challenged.
Finally, Dad stood up abruptly, his face flushed. “Enough! I don’t want to hear another word about this!” He stormed out onto the small balcony, sliding the door shut with a decisive thud, his silhouette visible against the city lights, phone glow still faintly present.
Lily stood frozen for a moment, then her shoulders slumped. The anger evaporated, leaving behind pure hurt. “I just… I worry about him,” she mumbled, more to herself than to Mom, before turning and retreating to her room, closing her door softly—a sound far more depressing than a slam.
Mom turned the camera back to herself, her smile strained and sad. “Don’t worry too much, Quinn. They’re both tired. They’ll cool down.”
But they didn’t, not for days. According to Mom’s daily text updates, a cold war had descended upon our home. Dad and Lily ate meals in heavy silence, passing dishes without meeting each other’s eyes. They worked side-by-side in the restaurant’s kitchen—Dad rolling dough, Lily preparing toppings—communicating only in monosyllables about orders. The warm, chaotic harmony that usually filled our home was replaced by a brittle quiet, punctuated by the blaring TV or Lily’s headphones. Mom floated between them, trying to bridge the gap with small talk and extra servings of Dad’s favorite pickled vegetables, to little avail.
I felt a sharp pang of homesickness, mixed with guilt. I missed being there to lighten the mood, to crack a silly joke about a customer, to distract Lily with university gossip, to simply be a neutral presence that reminded them of their shared love. Henry noticed my subdued mood over shared instant noodles one night. “Family stuff?” he guessed. When I explained the phone war, he nodded sagely. “My older sister and my dad once didn’t speak for two weeks over whether to get a dog. It’s the worst kind of quiet. But in my experience, they always find a way back. Usually over something stupid or something serious.”
He was right. The catalyst for change came not from a grand gesture, but from a small, frightening moment. The following Tuesday, during the pre-lunch rush prep, Dad was rapidly slicing cucumbers in the restaurant kitchen. His vision, strained from days of excessive screen time and underlying fatigue, suddenly blurred at a crucial moment. The sharp knife nicked the side of his index finger. It wasn’t a deep cut, but it bled readily, a vivid red streak against the pale green cucumber.
“Aiya!” he exclaimed, more in surprise than pain.
Mom, who was stirring a giant pot of broth, turned and gasped. But it was Lily, who was stocking the fridge nearby, who acted fastest. In an instant, her earlier anger was forgotten, replaced by pure, instinctive concern. She grabbed the small first-aid kit we kept under the counter, pushed Dad gently onto a stool, and expertly cleaned the cut, her movements quick and sure. She applied antiseptic and wrapped his finger neatly with a bandage, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Dad watched her, his initial irritation melting away under her careful ministrations. He saw not a nagging daughter, but a capable, caring young woman whose scolding came from a place of deep love. His stern expression softened into something vulnerable and tired.
That evening, after the last customer left, Dad didn’t retreat to his armchair. Instead, he placed his phone deliberately on the worn wooden dining table, screen down. The silence in the room was expectant. Lily was wiping down menus, avoiding his gaze.
“Lily,” Dad began, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. She looked up, wary. “You were right. About my eyes. They… they’re not what they used to be. That cut today… it was careless.”
Lily put down the cloth, her defensiveness crumbling. “I just… I don’t want you to hurt yourself, Dad. Or to be in pain.”
“I know.” Dad paused, struggling to articulate feelings he usually buried under work. “When your mom and I first got married, and before you were born, I worked two, sometimes three jobs. I drove trucks during the day, fixed wiring for building sites at night. I saved every yuan. Sleep was a luxury. Entertainment was a borrowed radio. This restaurant…” he gestured around the room, “…it was built on those years of no rest. Now, when I finally have a little time to sit, I think I got… carried away. Lost in other people’s stories because I was too tired to think about my own.”
Tears welled in Lily’s eyes, but she blinked them back. “I’m sorry I shouted. I shouldn’t have said those things. I just… I worry, and I don’t know how else to say it.”
Dad did something he rarely did. He reached across the table and patted her hand—a rough, calloused hand gently covering hers. “How about we make a deal? I’ll limit this thing,” he nudged the phone, “to one hour a day. After dinner. And you…” a faint, almost shy smile touched his lips, “…you can teach me how to use those wire things you always have in your ears. Maybe I can listen to the show instead of staring at it. Save my eyes for reading the profit ledger.”
Lily laughed, a watery, relieved sound that seemed to melt the last of the icy silence in the room. “Deal. But I get to make the playlist for your first lesson. You need some modern sounds in your life, Dad. Not just emperors and warhorses.”
Mom, who had been pretending to organize receipts by the counter, finally let a tear slip down her cheek, her shoulders relaxing for the first time in days. When she recounted all this to me during our next video call, her voice was thick with emotion. “Your sister spent last evening teaching him how to use streaming apps and Bluetooth headphones. Can you imagine? Your dad, sitting there so seriously with pink earphones, listening to her K-pop playlist! He said it was ‘too noisy,’ but he tapped his foot!”
I laughed until my sides hurt, the image vividly absurd and heartwarming. The phone battle had ended not with a simple truce, but with a fragile, beautiful understanding. It reminded me that in our Chongqing family, clashes were never about the surface issue—the phone, the chores, the forgotten task—but were tremors from deeper layers of love, worry, and the unspoken sacrifices that bound us together.
Homecoming and Heart-to-Heart
The mid-semester break arrived like a gift, a full week of respite from textbooks and dorm life. I boarded the train back to Chongqing, the rhythmic clatter of wheels on tracks syncing with my growing anticipation. The city greeted me with its signature embrace—the layered vista of towering buildings clinging to lush, misty hills, the humid air thick with the inseparable scents of chili oil, Sichuan pepper, and bus exhaust. Home, as the taxi wound through familiar streets, looked blessedly unchanged: our noodle restaurant’s red sign was a little more faded at the edges, the plastic tables on the sidewalk were the same, and the chaotic symphony of honking, sizzling woks, and neighborly shouts was a comforting melody.
Lily saw me first. She was refilling the vinegar dispensers on the tables when she glanced up. Dropping the bottle, she rushed out, wiping her hands on her apron before engulfing me in a tight hug. “You’re back! Let me look at you.” She held me at arm’s length, her critical eye scanning me. “You have lost weight! Doesn’t that university canteen have any decent oil or meat? You’re all bones!”
“I missed you too,” I grinned, the familiar overbearing affection washing over me like a warm tide.
That evening, after the last bowl was washed and the shutters were pulled down with a familiar rattle, Lily nudged me. “Rooftop?” It was our old ritual, a private space above the hustle of the street. Mom, knowing our tradition, had silently prepared a pot of steaming chrysanthemum tea and a plate of sunflower seeds. “Take a jacket,” she murmured, handing me mine. “The autumn wind is sneaky.”
We settled on our old spot, two small stools against the water tank, a blanket shared over our legs. The sprawling city glittered below us like a fallen galaxy, and a cool, gentle breeze carried distant echoes of life. For a while, we just sat in comfortable silence, sipping the fragrant tea.
“So,” Lily finally began, crunching on a seed. “Start talking. University. Don’t leave anything out. The good, the bad, the boring.”
And so I poured it out. I told her about my intimidating yet brilliant Literature professor who spoke like a poet from another century; about Henry, my roommate, and how our friendship evolved from awkward introductions to sharing deepest fears about the future; about the immense, silent library that both terrified and enthralled me; about the strange loneliness that could descend even in a crowded cafeteria, a feeling of being a tiny boat in a vast ocean of new faces and futures.
I told her about the small victories: understanding a complex poem, successfully giving a presentation without my voice shaking too much, finding a secluded corner in the garden where I liked to read. And the small embarrassments: getting lost on campus multiple times, spilling tea on my textbook, the awkwardness of group projects.
Lily listened, her gaze fixed on the horizon, absorbing every word. Her expression was one of deep curiosity, but beneath it, I detected a faint shadow of something else—a wistfulness, a quiet longing.
When I finished, she was quiet for a long moment, the only sound the distant hum of the city. “It sounds… amazing. And terrifying,” she said, echoing my own earlier thought.
“It’s both,” I admitted. “But it’s also… it’s like I can finally breathe a different kind of air. For the first time, I don’t constantly feel like the odd puzzle piece. There are people who love ancient grammar, people who write bizarre poetry, people who are shy like me but in different ways. I even joined a small book club. We read modern novels and argue about the characters.”
Lily smiled, a genuine, soft smile. “My little brother, the intellectual.” Then her smile faded, replaced by a pensive look. “Sometimes… I lie in bed and wonder what it would feel like. To live in a dorm, to walk under those big trees you describe, to have a schedule full of things you chose to learn, not things you have to do to survive. To have that… independence.”
My heart ached for her. I knew Lily’s story. School had been a struggle for her; letters and numbers danced inconveniently on the page, and teachers’ expectations felt like cages. She had graduated with relief and stepped into the restaurant without looking back, her practicality a shield against academic insecurity. But I also knew her intelligence was of a different, potent kind. She could calculate complex change in her head faster than any calculator, remember a regular customer’s favorite noodle thickness a year later, negotiate with suppliers with a sharp charm, and decorate the entire restaurant for Lunar New Year with creative flair using nothing but paper and fairy lights.
“Do you ever regret it?” I asked gently, treading carefully. “Not pursuing more… formal education?”
She shrugged, a defensive movement. “Regret is a heavy word. No, I don’t regret it. I love this place. I love the smell of the broth in the morning. I love the rhythm of the lunch rush. I love being here with Mom and Dad, knowing I’m holding up my corner. This is real. This is tangible.” She paused, her voice dropping. “But there are moments… like when you describe your professor’s lecture, or when I watch those travel vlogs about students in Seoul or London… I feel a little pinch. Here.” She touched her chest. “Like I missed a bus that was going somewhere bright, and I didn’t even know I was at the station.”
I reached over and covered her hand with mine. “Lily, you’re the strongest, most capable person I know. You’re the anchor of this family. You keep everything running, you keep Dad in line, you take care of Mom. Without you, this place would be chaos.”
“And you,” she nudged me playfully, her mood lightening slightly, “you’ve always been the one with his head in the clouds. The dreamer.” She looked at me, her eyes serious again. “Remember when you were seven or eight? You’d vanish for hours. Mom would panic, turning the restaurant upside down. And where would she find you? Curled up in the storage room between sacks of flour, completely lost in some library book about Greek myths or Chinese legends, covered in a fine white dust. You looked like a little ghost who’d stumbled into the wrong story.”
I laughed, the memory vivid and fond. “And you’d drag me out by my collar, scolding me for worrying everyone. Then you’d make me play ‘restaurant’ with you. You were always the bossy head chef, and I was the clumsy waiter who kept dropping the imaginary plates.”
We spent the next hour deep in the river of memory, navigating its twists and turns. We recalled the silly fights over the TV remote, the secret code we used to have for when Mom was in a bad mood, the way she’d stand up to older kids who tried to pick on me for being “girly.” She confessed that sometimes, scrolling through social media, she felt a pang seeing former classmates posting photos from office jobs in shiny buildings or studying in foreign cities. “My world is these few blocks, Quinn. The market, the supplier’s warehouse, this rooftop. It can feel… small.”
“But it’s a world you help create,” I insisted. “You give it its flavor, literally and otherwise.”
“I know,” she said, her voice firming with resolve. “And I choose it. When Mrs. Chen from upstairs comes down, sad because her son rarely calls, and I sit with her, give her an extra portion of pickles, and listen… that matters. When a family with a crying toddler comes in, and I make funny faces to calm the child down… that matters. When I see the satisfaction on someone’s face after their first bite of our noodles… that’s my A+ grade. It’s not the life I imagined when I was a kid dreaming of being a flight attendant, but it’s a good life. It’s an honest one.”
I nodded, a profound understanding settling in me. We were on different paths, yet fundamentally the same—both searching for purpose and meaning, both anchored by the same deep, muddy, loving soil of family.
The night grew colder. Before we gathered our things to go downstairs, Lily turned to me, her face serious in the dim rooftop light. “Promise me something, Quinn.”
“Anything.”
“Don’t ever lose that part of you that gets lost in books and dreams. The world needs that. And…” she added, her tone softening, “…don’t forget to come home, to this rooftop, and tell me about all the faraway places those books and your own life take you. Be my window.”
My throat tightened. “I promise,” I said, and it felt like the most important vow I’d ever made.
That night, lying in my childhood bed, surrounded by the familiar shadows and sounds of home, I felt a gratitude so deep it was almost painful. Home wasn’t just a location or a building. It was this—the shared, understanding silences, the whispered dreams in the dark, the unbreakable, complicated bond with a sister who saw all my flaws and loved me anyway, and whom I saw with just as much clarity and love.
The Chengdu Crisis
The winter holiday arrived, bringing with it a thrilling and unprecedented plan: a proper family trip to Chengdu. It was Mom’s brainchild, announced one evening during a video call. “We’ve never traveled together, just the four of us, for fun,” she said, her voice brimming with determined excitement. “No deliveries, no restaurant. Chengdu is close—just a few hours away. Pandas, teahouses, different spicy food! It’s perfect.” The promise of a collective adventure, a break from the all-consuming rhythm of the noodle shop, ignited a buzz of anticipation in all of us.
Preparation was a delightful chaos. Mom, in her element, created multiple lists on various scraps of paper: Things to Pack, Food for Car, Medicine Just in Case, Places to See. Dad took the car to his mechanic friend for a full check-up, declaring the old sedan “fit for an expedition.” Lily, our cultural director, spent evenings crafting the ultimate travel playlist, a mix of her favorite K-pop anthems, classic Chinese road trip songs, and surprisingly, some ambient music “for when we need to calm down.” My task, leveraging my university-student familiarity with apps, was to book the hotel and purchase tickets online for the Panda Base. In the flurry of digital planning, I was also entrusted with a crucial, physical responsibility: safeguarding everyone’s identification documents. “You’re the careful one with the organized schoolbag,” Mom said, handing me the four ID cards in a neat rubber band. It was a trust I accepted lightly, a mundane task I gravely underestimated.
The morning of our departure was crisp and shrouded in Chongqing’s legendary morning mist. We loaded the car amidst laughter and light bickering. Mom had packed enough homemade mantou (steamed buns), boiled eggs, pickled vegetables, and chili sauce to feed a small army for a week, not just a three-day trip. “You never know!” she insisted, defying Dad’s gentle teasing about needing a roof rack for the food alone. Dad just shook his head, his eyes fond. Lily ensured her portable speaker was charged. I, feeling responsible, double-checked my backpack for the hotel confirmation printout and the tickets on my phone, giving the pocket where the IDs resided a cursory pat.
The five-hour drive was, initially, a joyful revelation. We sang along horribly off-key to Lily’s energetic playlist, played silly “I spy” games that made Dad groan and eventually participate, and stopped at a scenic overlook for terrible, overpriced, but happily consumed roadside tea. The confines of the car became a bubble of shared joy. For the first time in years, I felt completely, unselfconsciously at ease with my family. My university insecurities, my childhood shyness—they receded, leaving just Quinn, a son and brother on an adventure.
We reached Chengdu by mid-afternoon, the city wider, flatter, and greener than our mountainous Chongqing. After checking into our simple but clean hotel, we dove headfirst into the experience with a legendary Chengdu hotpot dinner. Sitting around the bubbling, fiery broth, our faces flushed from the intense mala (numbing and spicy) flavor and the rising steam, laughing as we fished for slippery mushrooms and thinly sliced beef, everything felt perfect. This, I thought, is what happiness looks like.
The perfection shattered at 9 AM the next morning, right at the entrance to the Chengdu Research Base of Giant Panda Breeding. A long, cheerful line snaked ahead of us. The sun was out, the air was fresh. Mom, looking at the ticket prices, suggested, “Quinn, give me the IDs. I think we can get a family discount.” My heart, which had been light, suddenly performed a nosedive into my stomach. I swung my backpack to the front, unzipped the main compartment, and reached into the inner mesh pocket where I had sworn I placed the ID bundle last night after checking into the hotel.
My fingers found only the rough texture of the mesh. Nothing else. A cold, sharp dread flooded my veins. “Just a second,” I muttered, my voice already tight. I knelt on the pavement, ignoring the curious glances, and emptied the entire contents of my backpack onto a relatively clean patch of ground. Textbooks (why did I bring them?), a notebook, pens, a water bottle, spare socks, the hotel key card, scattered snacks… but no small, rubber-banded stack of identification cards.
“Quinn?” Dad’s voice came, still calm, but I heard the thin layer of ice forming over it.
“I… I can’t find them. I thought I packed them here last night.” The words felt like stones in my mouth.
Mom’s face, previously rosy with excitement, paled. “All of them? Even your father’s and mine?”
I could only nod, my throat closing up.
The joyful bubble popped violently. Lily let out a loud groan of exasperation. “How could you forget them? You had one job! One! Now we can’t even buy tickets! We drove all this way for nothing?” Her voice was sharp with disappointment, cutting deeper than anger.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, but it was drowned out by Dad’s heavy, frustrated sigh—a sound of profound letdown.
“Five hours driving yesterday. Hotel cost. The plan…” He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of pure stress. “And now we stand here like fools, looking at the gate we can’t enter.”
Mom, ever the first to shift into problem-solving mode, even in distress, said, “Maybe they fell out in the car. Let’s not panic. Let’s go check the car.”
A frantic, hope-fueled procession back to the parking lot followed. We tore the sedan apart. Under seats, in glove compartments, between cracks. Every bag was reopened and shaken. Nothing. The final, crushing reality settled in: In my focus on digital tickets and hotel apps last night, I had taken the IDs out of my backpack to enter our details online. I had left them on the cheap wooden desk in the hotel room, a silent, accusing square of plastic on the laminate surface. I hadn’t repacked them. The oversight was colossal, stupid, and entirely mine.
The drive back to the hotel was conducted in a silence so heavy it felt suffocating. The earlier laughter was a ghost. I sat in the back, pressed against the door, wanting the vehicle to swallow me whole. The vibrant streets of Chengdu, the excited tourists, the tantalizing food smells—all of it now felt like a mockery.
“It’s all my fault,” I finally choked out, breaking the awful quiet. “I ruined the whole trip.”
Dad, who had been gripping the steering wheel tightly, finally spoke, his usual quiet restraint cracking. “You always do this, Quinn! You live in your head, in your books and your thoughts, not in the real world where things need to be done! This isn’t one of your stories where a forgotten item magically appears! This is our family vacation! Our first one!” His words weren’t just loud; they were precise and painfully accurate. They stung because they confirmed my deepest fear: I was the impractical dreamer, the academic who couldn’t handle basic responsibilities, the weak link in our practical, hard-working family chain.
Lily didn’t jump to my defense. She just stared out the window, her profile stiff, her anger now a cold, disappointed wall. Her silence hurt more than any shout.
Mom tried to pour oil on the turbulent waters, but her voice was frayed with tiredness. “Arguing in the car won’t make the IDs teleport here. Let’s get back to the room, sit down, and think.”
Back in the bland hotel room, the atmosphere was arctic. I sat on the edge of my bed, a stranger in my own family. Dad turned on the TV, flipping through channels with aggressive clicks, the volume barely audible. Lily threw herself on her bed, scrolling through her phone, her face a mask. Mom got on her phone, making calls, speaking to hotel staff, asking about digital alternatives, police reports for lost IDs—any possible solution. Each call ended with her shaking her head slowly. The rules for the discounted tickets were strict; physical IDs were mandatory.
After an hour of futile efforts, Mom presented the only logical, dismal solution. “The last train back to Chongqing tonight is at 10 PM. One of us can take it, go home, get the IDs from the desk, and take the first train back tomorrow morning. We’d lose today entirely, and most of tomorrow.”
“That’s a whole day and a night wasted. Half the trip, gone,” Dad muttered, not looking at anyone.
“I’ll go,” I said, standing up quickly. The need to act, to fix my mistake, was desperate. “It’s my mistake. I should be the one to fix it. I’ll take the train tonight and be back by noon tomorrow.”
Dad looked at me, his anger having burned down to a pile of weary ashes. “No. It’s too late, and you traveling alone on night trains… no. It’s not safe. We’ll all go back.”
“But the trip—” Lily started, a hint of her earlier longing breaking through her cold front.
“—is over,” Dad finished flatly. “Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. Maybe we’re just not a vacation family.” The resignation in his voice was the final blow.
The drive home was a miserable, five-hour penitence. No music, no games, just the relentless hum of the engine and the crushing weight of my guilt and their collective disappointment. I replayed Dad’s words on a loop. You always do this. Was that my defining role? The family’s brilliant but bumbling scholar, useless in practical matters? The one who could analyze a poem but couldn’t remember the most important thing?
We arrived home late, the familiar apartment feeling hollow and accusatory. Without a word, I went straight to my room. And there they were. The four ID cards, lying neatly where I had abandoned them on my desk, next to my laptop. The sight was a physical punch. I picked them up, the cool, smooth plastic feeling like a judgment in my palm. The dam broke. I sat on my bed and cried—silent, heaving sobs of shame and frustration.
I didn’t hear Mom enter. She sat down beside me, her presence warm and solid, and wrapped an arm around my shaking shoulders. She didn’t say “it’s okay” immediately. She just let me cry. When my sobs subsided into hiccups, she spoke softly. “It was a mistake, Quinn. A big, frustrating mistake.”
“I ruined it,” I mumbled into my hands.
“You made a mistake,” she corrected, her voice gentle but firm. “And your dad… he didn’t mean all of that. He was disappointed, and tired from driving, and he lashed out. We all built this trip up so much in our heads. The fall was hard for everyone.”
Downstairs, I heard the low murmur of voices. Dad and Lily were talking in the kitchen, the clink of teacups a familiar sound. Gathering the last shreds of my courage, I went down, the IDs held out in front of me like an offering.
“I found them,” I said, my voice hoarse. I placed them in the center of the kitchen table.
Dad looked at them, then at my undoubtedly red, blotchy face. His stern expression dissolved into something much softer, tinged with regret. “I shouldn’t have yelled like that. I know you didn’t forget them on purpose. I was… I was just so looking forward to showing your mom and sister a good time.” It was a huge admission for him.
Lily sighed, her own defensive wall crumbling. “We all were. We overreacted too. It’s just… the pandas, you know? I really wanted to see the pandas.” She managed a small, shaky smile.
“We still can,” Mom said, her voice suddenly bright with a new, stubborn hope. She had been thinking while I cried. “We have the IDs now. We’ve slept a bit in the car. We can all get a few hours of proper sleep here, in our own beds. Then we leave at 5 AM. We’ll be in Chengdu by 10. We’ll have all afternoon and evening there. We can see the pandas, have another hotpot, walk through Jinli Street at night. We’ll have lost a day, but not the whole trip.”
We all looked at each other, the proposal hanging in the air. The anger had drained, leaving behind exhaustion and a fragile, flickering spark of hope. The choice was between surrendering to disappointment or choosing to salvage our togetherness.
Dad was the first to nod, a slow, deliberate movement. “Okay,” he said. “One more try. For the pandas.”
The second journey, beginning in the pre-dawn darkness, was quieter but fundamentally different. The tension was gone, replaced by a collective, determined effort to reclaim our joy. We stopped at a known-good roadside stall for a proper breakfast of soy milk and fried dough sticks. Over the steaming bowls, Dad told us a story none of us had heard before—about a time early in his truck-driving days when he got lost for an entire night in the mountains of Guizhou, surviving on wild berries and his own wits. He made it funny, and we laughed, the sound healing. Lily shared the latest K-pop scandal she’d read about. Mom held my hand under the table and said, quietly, so only I could hear, “You know, your dad once forgot his entire toolbox when he went to fix old Uncle Wang’s electricity. Uncle Wang had to drive him all the way back home to get it. We’re all forgetful sometimes. What matters is what we do after.”
By the time we once again passed the Chengdu city limit signs, the atmosphere in the car had transformed. The resolve to enjoy what we had left had dissolved the last remnants of resentment.
We went straight to the Panda Base. And there, amidst the bamboo groves, watching those clumsy, serene, black-and-white creatures munch contentedly or lounge in ridiculous poses, all remaining strain melted away. We pointed and laughed like children. Dad, who had claimed no interest, took the most photos on Mom’s phone. Lily was in heaven. We ate overpriced panda-shaped biscuits and didn’t care.
That evening, we strolled down the bustling, lantern-lit Jinli Ancient Street, soaking in the historic atmosphere. We ate spicy snacks from various stalls until we couldn’t eat anymore. As we sat on a bench by a little pond, watching the colored lights reflect on the water, Dad said, out of the blue, “You know, this trip didn’t go the way we drew the map.”
“No, it didn’t,” I agreed, bracing for more criticism.
“But maybe,” he continued, looking at each of us, “it went the way it was supposed to. We fought. We were stupid and angry. We drove in circles. But we came back. Together. We figured it out. That’s… that’s what matters more than any panda. That’s what family does.”
Lily leaned her head on my shoulder, a gesture of full forgiveness. “Next family trip, I’m keeping the IDs. And I’m hiding them in three different places.”
I smiled, the weight finally, truly lifting. “Deal.”
The drive home the next day was filled with a warm, sleepy contentment. We were sun-kissed, slightly sore from walking, and full of shared memories that now included not just pandas and hotpot, but also a crisis navigated and a bond reforged. The Chengdu Crisis hadn’t broken us; it had stress-tested us and revealed that our foundation, built on years of shared labor and love, was stronger than any single mistake. And in the quiet of that returning car, I finally felt not like the odd one out, the bookish liability, but an integral, accepted part of this messy, loud, fiercely loyal, and resilient unit—my Chongqing family.
Epilogue – Extended
Seasons cycled, painting the university campus in spring blossoms, summer greens, golden autumn leaves, and the bare-branched quiet of winter. Back home, life in the noodle restaurant flowed with its own rhythm, adapting and growing.
The restaurant continued to thrive, a testament to my family’s unwavering work. But small changes blossomed. Inspired by her online research and her love for sharing our flavors, Lily started a small but thriving side business. She began packaging and selling our secret family spice mix and chili oil online, calling it “Sister Lily’s Chongqing Fire.” She designed the labels herself, featuring a cartoon of a fierce-looking but cute girl holding a bowl of noodles. It started with friends and regular customers, then slowly grew, bringing in a new stream of income and a new sense of entrepreneurial pride for her. She’d video call me, excitedly showing me new orders or funny customer reviews.
Dad kept his promise about the phone. The one-hour limit held, more or less. With Lily’s tutelage, he progressed from audiobooks of historical novels to listening to podcasts about car maintenance and Chinese history. His eyesight stabilized. He still loved his dramas, but now he often listened while doing light repairs around the restaurant, his hands busy, his eyes resting. The pink earphones became a permanent, slightly absurd fixture around his neck.
Mom, the quiet engine of our family, finally allowed herself to be persuaded to take a real break. One spring weekend, Lily and Dad shooed her out of the restaurant. “Go, visit Quinn. See his world. We can handle two days without you,” they insisted. She resisted, fretful about a hundred small details, but eventually agreed.
I met her at the university gate on a sunny Saturday morning. Seeing her step off the bus, a small suitcase in hand, looking up at the grand university entrance with wide, apprehensive eyes, filled me with a profound, new kind of pride. This wasn’t just pride in my own world of books and lectures, but pride in her, in the world she had built for me with her strength and sweat, now stepping into mine.
I gave her the grand tour. We walked under the ancient ginkgo trees, sat in the back of a vast lecture hall (empty on the weekend), visited my favorite spot in the library, and ate in the canteen where I pointed out Henry and my other friends. She asked quiet questions, touched the spines of books in the library with reverence, and took countless photos to show Dad and Lily. “It’s so… peaceful here,” she said, sitting on a bench in the botanical garden. “So much space to think.”
“It is,” I agreed. “But you know, Mom, sometimes I miss the noise. The sizzle of the wok, the clatter of bowls, Dad’s grumbling, Lily’s music.”
She smiled, a deep, understanding smile. “Home is always there, Quinn. It doesn’t get smaller because your world gets bigger. It just becomes the place you return to, to remember who you are.”
That evening, over a simple dinner off-campus, she told me stories I’d never heard—about her childhood in Guizhou, about how she and Dad met (it involved a flat tire and a shared love of spicy food), about her fears and hopes when she was my age. It was a gift, a leveling of our relationship.
We are family. We are Quinn, the dreamer finding his path. Lily, the pragmatic protector building her own. Dad, the steadfast pillar learning to rest. Mom, the gentle glue holding our universe together. We are imperfect. We clash with the loud, specific passion of people who share everything. We misunderstand, we forget IDs, we get addicted to phone dramas, we worry too much. But we endure. We return. We share bowls of noodles that taste of home, and we learn to share our changing worlds.
No matter where my dreams lead me—to further study, to a job in another city, to chapters of life I can’t yet imagine—I know the compass point of my heart will always be set to the flavors of our kitchen: the numbing heat of Sichuan pepper, the rich depth of the bone broth, the sharp tang of pickled vegetables, and the sweet, underlying note of shared history. It is the taste of resilience, of arguments resolved on rooftops, of crises overcome on long drives, of silent understandings and loud, laughing meals. It is the taste of my Chongqing family.
