The Quiet Algorithm of Us

13 Return to the An House

The city decided to be gentle about it. No parade, no paparazzi, just a morning that smelled like steamed rice and rain rinsing dust off memories. The sedan took the long streets at a law-abiding pace. The An house appeared the way childhood homes do when you’ve upgraded to armor: smaller than remembered, somehow grander, unchanged in all the parts that matter. White walls that had seen exams and winters. Potted osmanthus that refuse to be dramatic. A door that knows your knock at a cellular level.

Yulan opened it with a smile that set the kitchen clock forward ten minutes. She wore soft linen and the look of a woman who could fold the world into a tidy square if it stopped fussing. Jianming followed with the precise nod of a father who refuses to weaponize pride. They were the kind of parents who kept guest slippers warm and politics in the hallway.

“Welcome home,” Yulan said to both, as if hospitality were not a scarce resource.

“Mama,” Miran said, and forgot how to do stress for eight seconds straight.

“Father,” Jinchao said, because he reads rooms first and then the floor plan, then continue, “Mother.” He offered the correct fruit, a modest bow of posture, and a restraint so elegant it practically set the table. The scar over his eyebrow declined to introduce itself.

They stepped inside. The house exhaled. Someone in the neighbor’s courtyard shouted at a rooster with love. A bamboo wind chime debated philosophy. Yulan pressed tea into their hands without asking if they wanted any, which is how benevolence should work. The living room remembered being a fort built from sofa cushions. The bookshelf remembered being looted for algebra advantage. The floorboard by the window debated creaking, decided to wait until dessert.

“Lunch is nothing fancy,” Yulan lied, waving at a table composed of restraint and good intentions: braised tofu that forgot its ego, stir-fried greens with garlic that had seen things, steamed fish painted with ginger like a whisper. Pickled radish glowed. Soup behaved.

“You’ve lost weight,” she told her daughter, which, in the ancient dialect of mothers, means “I am tracking your hydration from space.”

“Work,” Miran said. “And maps.”

“You will sit,” Yulan declared to the room, which complied instantly. “You will eat. You will not apologize.”

They did as told. The chopsticks were smooth with use. The rice was a snowfield you want to ruin. The ginger on the fish raised its little hands and promised to be civil. Jianming asked adult questions the way he does, not to trap but to understand: “Travel manageable?” “Schedules less theatrical?” “The house comfortable?”

“Very,” Jinchao said. “Your daughter has a high tolerance for practicalities.”

“Her mother, unfortunately,” Yulan said, “trained her to be allergic to nonsense.”

They ate in the kind of quiet that is actually music. Yulan topped bowls. Jianming corrected a serving spoon the way a man adjusts the horizon. Yulan watched her son-in-law observe the small protocols and adored him for the daring feat of not performing. He waited for elders to lift their chopsticks. He wiped the spill next to his own bowl without summoning a maid. He asked where the salt came from like salt is a person with a story.

“Ren family must be noisy,” Jianming said, neutral curiosity wrapped in plain rice.

“Gracious,” said Jinchao, which in his mouth meant: we are learning to be boring for good reasons. “We are improving our mornings.”

“Good,” Jianming said. “The world breaks where mornings don’t hold.”

They moved to soup. Yulan made her ambush look like a garnish. “Children,” she said, smiling because grammar should be disarming, “are a blessing.”