Ngoại always walks into the house first on giao thừa. Ngoại sets the tone for our year. Ngoại’s the luck pioneer. Ngoại believes she will rub off on all of us - her luck, her charms, her misdirected efforts, her clumsy affections. Ngoại too wants to start fresh - I can see it in her eyes. We all want to leave this all behind. We all have eaten canh khổ qua minutes before this moment. Dì always puts a little bit too much sugar in the soup. Dì hopes we won’t notice but we always do. Dì promises to lay off on the sugar but we eat sweet khổ qua every giao thừa. Mẹ and I like it bitter though, that’s the problem. Mẹ always jokes Dì’s sweet tooth will give us cavities or obesity. Dì responds by putting more food into my bowl and so does Mẹ. Then Mẹ says I shouldn’t eat so much by belly stretches. I shouldn’t eat too much I can’t fall asleep tonight and make Mẹ sleepless too. I don’t like to turn off the lights when I’m still up. I say all four of us are scared of the dark. But night lights are dim upstairs and Ngoại with Dì always gets up before sunrise. Mẹ tells me she’s sleepy because she’s been sleep deprived all year, tells me she’s worried about my fucked up sleep schedule, tells me she can't sleep knowing my eye bags are getting heavier and sagging. Mẹ keeps talking through the whole meal, though we both know I’ll pick a collection of Tết shows we’ll watch until the morning together, and laugh about how Tết used to be the only times I was allowed to pull all-nighters. But things change.

I correct: Things change around a constant.

Mẹ and I always go upstairs so Ngoại can sleep a bit before midnight comes. Dì resumes giao thừa preparation around Ngoại’s nap. Mẹ and I watch shows Dì doesn’t like and never has time to watch anyway. I text my friends when Mẹ waters the small mai pots. I grow and do better around Mẹ still always worrying about me, hesitant to fully give me her trust. We age around the living room every year, gathering to share mứt Tết. I learn how to properly cúng and thắp nhang for Phật Bà, for Thần Tài Ông Địa, for Ông Ngoại, for những Ông Bà who had lived here before and eaten sweet khổ qua and bickered and fought and cried and laughed and loved and đón giao thừa together. Dì will steep tea while Mẹ cleans and Ngoại gets ready to xông đất. Ngoại is now too weak to walk far from the house five minutes before the fireworks bloom. But Ngoại will always come back. She will always come back, first.