But this woman was eating it bite by bite, savoring every mouthful, and the weight on my chest grew so heavy I could barely breathe.
I tested her.
"Emma, do you remember what we ate the night before the exam?"
Her hand paused mid-bite.
Then she smiled.
"Of course. Just simple home cooking, right? Something light so it wouldn't mess with my test."
Something went cold behind my eyes.
Wrong.
The night before the exam, my daughter had been too nervous to sleep. I made her a bowl of brown sugar glutinous rice balls.
Her favorite. The one time I let her break the no-sweets rule.
The woman in front of me had no idea.
I kept my face still and pressed on.
"What about when you were little? What bug were you most scared of?"
She answered without thinking.
"Cockroaches. Everyone's scared of cockroaches."
My heart sank all the way to the floor.
My daughter had only ever been afraid of caterpillars. She'd never flinched at a cockroach in her life. She'd stomp them with her bare foot and not think twice.
Every answer was wrong.
Not a single one was right.
On the surface I held it together, but inside I was coming apart, and I couldn't stop staring at the woman sitting across from me.
My eyes went red.