I’m making khao tom for myself—just one bowl. The kitchen’s so quiet now, it’s unnerving. Usually, there’s steam and clatter, Grandma humming while she chops, telling me off for something—or just asking about my day. Now? Nothing. Just the hum of the fridge and me, at 35, alone in this house with a single serving and a rage that burns. Is that weird? To be so angry about… emptiness? At them, for leaving? At myself, for not—what? Not being enough, not doing enough, not keeping them here? It just… STICKS. And now, this. Just me.
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