Viet Thanh Nguyen

I remembered this kind of hunger. I had experienced it so often in my youth, even when my mother served me three-quarters of a meal and saved only a quarter for herself. I’m not hungry, she said. When I was old enough to see that she was denying herself, I said, I’m not hungry, either, Mama. Our staring contest over the meager helpings led us to push them back and forth until her love for me overpowered mine for her, as always. Eating her portion, I swallowed not just the food but the salt and pepper of love and anger, spices stronger and harsher than the sugar of sympathy.