Sunday in Flushing had a particular sound.
The high, thin call of kids yelling in three languages. The sizzle of something frying two houses down. The clatter of mahjong tiles through an open window. The distant rumble of the 7 train.
Margot stepped off the bus with a paper bag in one hand and her bag in the other, the air thick with late-afternoon humidity and exhaust.
She hadn’t slept much.
Again.
Saturday had been a blur: Luis’s shop, the oil and metal and anger; Declan in her neighborhood, sending mango cake as if it were a normal thing for bosses to do; Sunday dinner rescheduled and her brain trying to parse too many converging storylines.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She ignored it.
For twenty minutes, this street, this walk, this house would be her entire world.
She turned the familiar corner, heart squeezing at the sight of the same brick row of houses, the same crooked satellite dishes, the same faded awning on the corner bakery.
Her parents’ house looked exactly as it had for the last twenty years. Same chipped steps. Same plastic flowers in the window box that her mother refused to throw out because “they never die.”
The only new thing was the white bakery van idling two doors down, the driver carrying a box toward her parents’ front gate.
Her stomach dropped.
She quickened her pace.
“Excuse me,” she said, intercepting him at the gate. “Is that for Chen?”
He checked his ticket. “Yeah. Mango cake?”
“I’ve got it,” she said, taking the box before he could ring.
He shrugged, unbothered. “Signed?”
She scribbled her name and watched him drive away.
The white box felt heavier than it should.
*On me*, Declan had texted.
She stared at the neat logo on the side. The same bakery she always used. The one her father liked.
It would be so easy to let her mother believe she’d bought it.
To slip Declan’s gesture under the table, like so many other compromises.
She sighed, squared her shoulders, and rang the bell.
Her mother flung the door open almost immediately, as if she’d been hovering behind it.
“There you are,” she scolded. “Late. Traffic? Always traffic. Come, come, before your father eats everything.”
“I’m ten minutes late,” Margot protested, stepping in, the cool of the narrow hallway wrapping around her. “You make it sound like I drove from Boston.”
“You might as well,” her mother huffed. “Manhattan, Queens, what’s the difference? Both full of crazy people.”
Her father’s voice drifted from the living room. “I heard that.”
“You were meant to,” her mother shot back, then turned to the box. “Ah! Cake. Good girl.” Her eyes narrowed. “Wait. This box looks… different.”
“It’s the same bakery,” Margot said quickly. “New… logo.”
Her mother’s suspicious look deepened. “You didn’t go to the cheap place, ah? That one near station with flies?”
“No,” Margot said, stung. “Would I feed Baba flies?”
“Yes,” her mother said promptly. “If it was on sale.”
Margot almost laughed.
“Where’s Baba?” she asked, kicking off her shoes and slipping into the house slippers by the door.
“In living room pretending to watch TV,” her mother said. “Really waiting to see cake.”
She carried the box to the kitchen, set it on the counter carefully, and peeled back the lid.
Perfect, glossy mango slices fanned over whipped cream. A little card tucked inside with the bakery’s logo and a handwritten note: *Enjoy! – H.*
Heat crept up her neck.
Of course he’d put a damn initial.
Her mother peered over her shoulder. “Ooooh. Fancy. They wrote note. See, your mother is always right. This is the good place. You must have spent too much.”
“It wasn’t—” Margot began.
Her mother whipped around, eyes narrowing. “Wait. Did *he* send this?”
Margot blinked. “He who?”
“New boss,” her mother said. “Rich man. Honest, dangerous man. Did he send cake?”
Margot cursed silently.
Her mother missed *nothing*.
She could lie.
Or she could… not.
She sighed.
“Yes,” she said. “He paid for it.”
Her mother’s eyebrows shot up. “Aiya. Look at that. So fast already sending food to house. Very dangerous.”
“It’s just cake,” Margot said. “He heard Baba likes it. It’s not—”
“Gifts are never *just* gifts,” her mother said, wagging a finger. “They are… how you say… signaling.”
“Mamí, she’s right,” came a new voice from the kitchen doorway.
Her younger cousin, Lila, leaned against the doorframe, grinning. “Cake from boss is a signal. Question is, what’s he signaling?”
Margot groaned. “Can we not do this today? I had a long week.”
“You always have long week,” her mother said. “That is your personality. Sit. Eat fruit. Lila, take cake to fridge. Don’t drop. If you drop, I drop *you*.”
Lila laughed, taking the box. “Yes, Auntie.”
They moved into the living room.
Her father stood, a little stiffly, from his spot on the couch and pulled her into a hug that smelled like Tiger Balm and soy sauce.
“You’re late,” he grumbled. “I already eat half the pork.”
“You always eat half the pork,” she said into his shoulder. “Save me some. And maybe some arteries while you’re at it.”
He snorted, releasing her. “Your mother will blame me for heart if I don’t eat. She cook like feeding army.”
“Because my family doesn’t believe in portion control,” her mother called from the kitchen.
“Sit,” her father said, gesturing to the couch. “Tell me about work. This boss. He still complicated?”
*Complicated* didn’t begin to cover it.
She sank onto the couch, tugging her knees close, the familiarity of the worn cushions a small anchor.
“He’s… busy,” she said. “The whole company is. There’s a big deal we’re working on. Lots of moving parts.”
“Too many moving parts, things break,” her father said. “You tell him that.”
“I do,” she said. “He listens. Sometimes.”
“Good,” her father said, surprisingly satisfied. “Stubborn people need stubborn assistant.”
“I’m not stubborn,” she said automatically.
“Ha!” both her parents said in unison.
Lila snickered. “I see denial runs in the family.”
“Lila,” Margot said sweetly, “how’s your dating life? Still matching with guys who say ‘no drama’ in their profiles?”
Lila made a face. “Touché.”
Her father lowered himself back into his spot.
“Bank called again,” he said abruptly.
Her stomach clenched. “When?”
“Friday,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “They wanted answer. I said I am consulting with my… counsel.”
He said the last word with exaggerated seriousness.
“Good,” she said. “Because you *are*.”
Her mother brought in a tray of cut fruit—orange slices, watermelon, something that looked suspiciously like jicama.
“You look tired,” she said, setting it down. “Are they working you too hard?”
“I’m fine,” Margot said.
Her mother gave her a look that said *liar* without words.
“Tell your father what you did yesterday,” she said instead. “With the… lady on phone.”
“Priya,” Margot corrected. “She’s… someone my boss connected us with. She buys loans from banks and restructures them. On better terms.”
Her father frowned. “Why would she do that?”
“Because she makes money doing it,” Margot said. “Just… less bloodthirsty terms.”
He grunted. “Blood is where the flavor is.”
Her mother smacked his arm. “Don’t talk like that in front of girl. She will think life is soup.”
“Life *is* soup,” he said. “Messy. Too hot. Sometimes has bones.”
Lila snorted. “Uncle Chen, please start a podcast.”
“Anyway,” Margot said, trying not to smile. “Priya wants to meet you. She thinks she can buy your loan from the bank at a discount and then… give you better options.”
Her father’s eyes narrowed. “Options like what?”
“Like lower payments,” she said. “Longer term. Or a plan to wind down the shop over a couple of years so you’re not… squeezed.”
His shoulders tensed. “I don’t want to wind down. I want to work.”
“Then you can,” she said quickly. “This isn’t about forcing you to close. It’s about not letting the *bank* force you to. On their terms.”
He leaned back, rubbing his chest absently.
“This woman,” he said. “She works for your boss?”
“No,” Margot said. “She runs her own fund.”
“Then why she help?” he pressed.
She hesitated.
Because Declan asked, she thought.
“Because there’s money in it,” she said aloud. “She’s not doing this out of charity. She thinks there’s a way to make a profit and not crush you. That’s her business model.”
Her father’s mouth twisted. “Everyone making profit from me except me.”
Emotion stung her eyes.
“That’s not fair,” she said softly.
He waved a hand. “Is joke, ah. Don’t look like that. I know you helping. You always help.”
Her mother sat, wiping her hands on a dish towel, anxiety fluttering just under her briskness.
“I don’t trust these people,” she said. “Banks, funds, all have same goal. Take from little man. Your father is already tired. I don’t want him fight more suits.”
“We’re not fighting them,” Margot said. “We’re… negotiating. On our terms, not theirs.”
“Your terms,” her mother said. “Not ours. We don’t understand this world. We understand invoices, deliveries, parts. Not… funds.”
“Then let me understand it,” Margot said. “That’s why I went to school. That’s why I work where I work. So I can *read* what they’re doing, not just… be done to.”
Her mother looked at her, really looked.
Pride warred with fear in her eyes.
“Okay,” she said finally. “We meet this Priya. We listen. But if I don’t like her—”
“You’ll tell me,” Margot finished. “And we’ll walk away.”
Her father snorted. “You two make it sound so simple.”
“It’s not,” Margot said. “But it’s… something.”
They ate.
Her mother piled her plate with more pork than was strictly reasonable. Her father pretended to complain about his diet while taking seconds.
Lila told a story about a disastrous Bumble date who’d tried to sell her crypto. Her parents didn’t understand half the words but laughed at the facial expressions.
For an hour, Margot let herself sink into it.
The table. The noise. The chaos.
Then her mother went to get the cake.
“When did you order it?” her father asked, as they listened to her clatter in the kitchen.
“Yesterday,” Margot lied.
He grunted. “Expensive.”
“Worth it,” she said.
He looked at her, softer. “You don’t have to.”
“I know,” she said. “I want to.”
He nodded, like that settled it.
Her mother returned with the cake, candles stuck haphazardly on top.
“It’s not anyone’s birthday,” Margot protested.
“Is always someone’s birthday somewhere,” her mother said. “We celebrate surviving one more week of stupid banks.”
Her father laughed, surprisingly loud.
They sang. Off-key. In three languages.
Her father made a show of blowing out the candles.
“I wish,” he said, “for no more letters from banks and no more cake from bosses.”
Her mother clucked. “Who doesn’t like cake from bosses? I wish my boss had sent me cake. He only sent me more work.”
“I’m not discussing my boss with you,” Margot said quickly.
“Why?” her mother demanded. “You embarrassed? Ashamed? Attracted?”
Lila choked on her water, eyes wide.
“Auntie!” she gasped. “You can’t just say that.”
“I can say what I like,” her mother said. “This is my house. My daughter. My mango cake.”
Margot wanted the floor to open up.
“It’s not like that,” she said, too fast.
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “You protest too much.”
“Ma,” Margot warned.
Her father, who had been watching the volley with increasing amusement, cleared his throat.
“Leave her,” he said. “If she wants to bring boss, she bring boss. If not, we still eat.”
Her mother sniffed. “You’re no fun.”
“I am plenty fun,” he said. “You just too serious to see.”
They bickered affectionately.
Margot cut the cake, hands steady despite the storm in her head.
As she handed her father his plate, he caught her wrist.
“You like him?” he asked, voice low enough that her mother, now lecturing Lila about something, didn’t hear.
She froze.
She could say no.
He would probably believe her.
But her father had always been able to see through her in ways that made her uncomfortable.
She sighed.
“I like… working with him,” she said carefully.
He watched her.
“And as… man?” he asked, searching.
Heat crept up her neck.
“That doesn’t matter,” she said. “He’s my boss.”
He snorted. “You sound like your mother. All rules, no… mess.”
“I like rules,” she said. “They keep things from getting messy.”
He smiled, sad and fond. “Life is mess, *nǚ'ér*. Rules just give you map. They don’t change terrain.”
“Maps help,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “But you still have to walk.”
She swallowed.
“I’m walking,” she said. “Very carefully.”
“Good,” he said. “Just don’t walk into wall with your eyes closed because you’re too scared to look around.”
She rolled her eyes. “Did you and Ma take a parenting class in unsolicited metaphors?”
“Yes,” he said solemnly. “We passed.”
Later, in the kitchen, her mother cornered her while loading the dishwasher.
“This Priya woman,” she said. “She married?”
Margot frowned. “I… don’t know. Why?”
Her mother shrugged. “Women without families sometimes make strange decisions.”
Margot bit back a lecture on internalized sexism.
“She seems… balanced,” she said. “Smart. Practical.”
“Your boss likes her,” her mother said.
“She’s effective,” Margot said.
“Exactly,” her mother said. “He trusts her with your father’s… rope.” She mimed a noose, then a lifeline. “Be careful. People he trusts, he listens to. If she says, ‘Too much trouble,’ he will move on.”
“I know,” Margot said.
Her mother studied her.
“You like him,” she said quietly.
“Ma—”
“Not just as boss,” her mother went on. “I see your face when you talk about him. You get… animated. Annoyed. Soft.”
Margot closed her eyes briefly.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m not… doing anything about it.”
“You already are,” her mother said. “You working twelve hours a day for him. You carrying his ghosts. You bringing his people to your father’s table. That is… something.”
Margot opened her eyes.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked, voice tight. “Quit? Walk away from the one person in a position to maybe undo a little of what NexTelis did?”
Her mother’s shoulders sagged.
“No,” she said. “I want you to have… choice. To not feel like everything is reaction. To not build your whole life around one man’s… project.”
Margot exhaled.
“I’m not,” she said. “I have… me. I have you. I have… this.” She gestured around.
“You have very little outside work,” her mother said bluntly. “Friends? Hobbies? Men who are not boss? You used to play piano. Now you only type.”
Guilt pricked.
“I’ll… try,” she said.
Her mother huffed. “Don’t try. Do.”
Yoda, Margot thought.
In Chinese.
She left a few hours later, arms full of leftovers.
On the sidewalk, she paused, the sky streaked pink and gold.
Her phone buzzed.
She checked it, half-expecting, half-dreading his name.
It wasn’t him.
Priya.
> *Got bank’s draft offer. It’s not terrible. Could be better. See if your father is free Tuesday morning. I want to lay it out with him there. No surprises.*
She exhaled.
> *He’s free. We’ll be there. Thank you.*
> *Don’t thank me yet. We haven’t signed anything. Enjoy your cake. – P*
Margot smiled.
She might not trust systems.
But she trusted competence.
She headed home, the taste of mango and the echo of her parents’ voices lingering.
On her way up the stairs to her apartment, she allowed herself one small indulgence.
She texted him.
> *The cake was a hit. He pretended to complain about his diet and then took seconds. My mother says you’re “signaling.”*
Dots.
> *Your mother is perceptive. And has excellent taste in dessert.*
> *She also says you’re dangerous.*
> *She’s not wrong.*
She stared.
> *I’m trying not to be,* he added, after a beat.
Her chest tightened.
> *Try harder,* she wrote.
> *Working on it.*
She put her phone face down on the table.
And, for the first time in a week, fell asleep before midnight.
With mango and metal and a man’s too-honest voice mixing in her dreams.
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