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often said he’d never expected my mother to become such a competent housekeeper. She had grown up the only child of the richest landowners in her village, a pampered girl destined for even greater wealth and privilege. She could have married a high-level official, or gone to university in France. But my parents grew up in revolutionary times, when you couldn’t think of much but war. Instead of living a life of comfort, my mother became an orphan, then a soldier, and, now, an industrious homemaker in barren Hanoi. Instead of studying French literature in Paris, she learned to wring three dinners out of a sack of water morning glory, a handful of dried shrimp, and a few scoops of rice. My father himself taught her how to mop.
    From my father, I inherited the ability to relax; from my mother, the need to feel guilty about it. And I do still feel guilty, after all these years, that my own life, unlike that of my parents, has become so luxurious. I
    have my own business here in Wilmington, an expensive SUV, a house without a mortgage, a Jacuzzi bathtub. My mother is long gone now, and I am long gone from my life in Hanoi and everyone I ever knew there. After twenty-three years, though, I still sometimes glance across my store and imagine my mother standing there, tapping her foot impatiently. My business impresses her, but she doesn’t like to see me doing nothing. She crosses her arms impatiently and I hear her say, “Nobody put a man on the moon by wasting time.”
    But my job is not rocket science. If I vacuum every day, my customers will come. If I don’t, they’ll come anyway. I don’t run a hospital in this town. I run an Asian market. People come here to buy persimmons in season, frozen duck, garam masala. I keep my shop very clean. I wish that my mother could see the high marks I receive from the city health inspectors. (We didn’t even have health inspectors in Vietnam!) I am the purveyor to Wilmington’s immigrant population, Latinos included, and the brave Caucasian cooks who decide to try “international” for dinner. I do an excellent business, and five days a week I sell take-out lunches, too, but none of this keeps me on my hands and knees every minute. In the afternoons, I usually get a lull between the lunch crowd and the commuters who stop by on their way home from work. Sometimes, I go over receipts then, or take an inventory, or call Far East Distributors to see if they have taro powder or some other item my customers can’t get at Wal-Mart. I like the quiet in the store then, and the way the sun streams through the blinds, making stripey bands of light against the palettes of rice in the corner. If I’m not busy, I watch Oprah .
    Today, she is asking, “Is Your Spouse Also Your Friend?” and, though
    that’s not an issue in my life, I still find it diverting.
    The guest is a psychologist. He uses a questionnaire and claims he can predict with 90 percent accuracy whether a marriage will last. He holds a sheet containing answers to the questions he asked O.’s partner, Stedman, in advance.
    I’d like to hear, but my employee, Marcy, has begun to argue with her mother. “Will you let me live my life already?” she demands.
    Her mother, Gladys, says, “You make big mistake.”
    “I need quiet!” I yell at both of them.
    For a moment, silence, then Marcy wanders over to watch with me, Gladys close behind.
    The guest asks O., “What is Stedman’s favorite music?”
    O. cocks her head as if she’s thinking, but you can tell she already has her answer. “Marvin Gaye,” she announces.
    The guy checks the sheet, then looks at O. apologetically, as if he’d
    gotten the wrong answer. “Actually, it’s the Bee Gees.”
    O. looks appalled. “The Bee Gees!” she cries. The audience moans.
    Marcy pulls her hair back and twists it into a messy bun held in place with a pencil. Apparently, that’s high fashion these days. “The Bee Gees. Cool,” she says.
    “Bee Gees uncool,” I tell her. I