Soon the food was ready. Seeing Noah sitting alone in the living room, Aunt Mei’s expression darkened like storm clouds gathering.
"Ah, this boy! How could he be so rude? It’s always those stupid games he’s playing!"
Her voice carried up the stairs with a mother’s fury.
"He didn’t even bother entertaining you while the food was getting ready!"
Here comes the lecture. Poor Ethan.
"ETHAN! GET DOWN HERE!"
The thunderous call could have woken the dead.
Noah winced sympathetically—he remembered being on the receiving end of similar summons from his deceased mother.
Heavy footsteps thumped down the stairs as Ethan appeared, resignation written across his face like a death sentence.
"Where’s Uncle Smith?" Noah interrupted smoothly, deflecting Aunt Mei’s brewing storm.
"Has he not finished work yet?"
Sorry aunty, but I gotta save him from your fury.
Aunt Mei paused mid-lecture.
"He has. He should be arriving soo—"
The front door swung open with perfect timing.
"Honey, I’m home!" Uncle Smith’s voice sounded through the house.
He stepped inside, suit jacket draped over his arm like a conquering businessman.
Middle-aged but still trim, Uncle Smith had somehow avoided the desk-job belly that plagued most men his age.
His smile lit up the entire house.
"Noah?" His eyes widened with genuine delight.
"It’s been far too long! How have you been, son?"
The older man crossed the room in three strides, pulling Noah into a bear hug almost crushing him.
Smith held Noah at arm’s length, studying him like a proud father.
"You’re looking good. Really good. I heard about your startup it must be treating you well?"
"Haha, sort of. Business picked up recently," Noah replied, sticking to his prepared script.
"Finally seeing some returns."
"That’s what I like to hear!" Smith clapped his shoulder with enthusiasm.
"Persistence pays off. I always knew you had it in you."
Ethan rolled his eyes from the corner, but even he seemed to relax slightly with his father’s arrival.
Uncle Smith had that effect, the natural charisma that could defuse any situation.
"Wash up, dear," Aunt Mei called from the kitchen. "Lunch is being put on the table."
"Yes, ma’am!" Smith winked at Noah conspiratorially.
"Never keep the chef waiting. First rule of married life."
Some things never change. Thank god.
The family dynamic shifted as Uncle Smith disappeared to wash his hands. Aunt Mei’s anger evaporated, replaced by wry smile.
Even Ethan seemed less defensive with his father home.
Aunt Mei emerged from the kitchen carrying a steaming platter.
Noah followed them toward the dining room, chocolate box in hand, ready for whatever combination of interrogation and comfort awaited.
The dining room filled with the comfortable chaos of family mealtime.
Steam rose from dumplings arranged like small treasures on porcelain plates.
The aroma of garlic and ginger created an atmosphere of pure comfort.
Uncle Smith loosened his tie with relief.
"You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had."
Here comes the office drama. Uncle Smith’s stories are legendary.
"That new director—what’s his name, honey? Richardson?"
He glanced at Aunt Mei, who nodded while serving rice.
"Complete and utter jackass."
Aunt Mei swatted his arm playfully.
"Language at the dinner table!"
"Sorry, dear. Complete and utter...anyways..."
Noah bit back a laugh as Smith continued, warming to his subject.
"This morning, Richardson calls an emergency meeting. Emergency! Like the building was on fire."
He gestured dramatically with his fork.
"Turns out, he wants to discuss the ’optimal placement of office plants for feng shui energy flow.’"
You’ve got to be kidding.
"Twenty-three people. In a conference room. For two hours. About plants. He believes in those Chinese powers, qi or whatever you call them."
Ethan’s lips twitched despite his apparent determination to remain depressed.
Uncle Smith noticed immediately, like a comedian sensing his audience.
"But wait, it gets better!"
Smith leaned forward conspiratorially.
"Richardson brings in this ’feng shui consultant’—some guy in some cosplay clothing, the ones you find monks in movies wearing, who spent forty minutes explaining why the ficus was ’blocking our prosperity channels.’"
"So what did you do?" Noah asked, genuinely curious.
Smith’s grin turned wicked.
"I suggested we fire the ficus and promote the rubber plant. It had better leadership qualities."
Aunt Mei snorted into her soup.
Even the sullen Ethan cracked a small smile.
Uncle Smith strikes again.
"You didn’t actually say that," Aunt Mei gasped between laughs.
"Oh, I absolutely did. In front of the entire team."
Smith’s eyes twinkled with mischief.
"Richardson’s face turned three shades of purple."
The man’s fearless. Or completely insane.
"Dad," Ethan spoke for the first time since sitting down, "you’re going to get fired."
"Probably," Smith agreed playfully.
"But at least I’ll go down fighting the good fight against stupidity."
The laughter continued as Smith regaled them with more tales of corporate absurdity.
Richardson’s attempts to implement "synergistic mindfulness protocols."
The mandatory meditation sessions in the supply closet.
The team-building exercise involving interpretive dance.
*How does he survive in that environment?*
But watching Uncle Smith’s storytelling, Noah understood. The man had found the secret to navigating corporate madness. It was by treat it like a comedy show rather than taking it seriously.
Maybe there’s a lesson there for me. Perhaps I should do that in my shop. I take things to seriously sometimes
"Speaking of work," Smith turned his attention to Noah, "how’s your business venture going? Mei mentioned you had some big developments."
I knew this question was bound to be asked. Well, I guess it’s time for my carefully crafted explanation.
Noah nonded, preparing to navigate between truth and believability. "Actually, things have been going really well lately. Found a new market that’s been very... receptive to my services."
"That’s fantastic!" Smith raised his water glass in salute.
The conversation flowed naturally from there—business philosophy, market strategies, the importance of treating customers well.
Uncle Smith dispensed wisdom with the confidence of someone who’d survived decades in corporate trenches.
The comfortable atmosphere shifted as Aunt Mei’s attention turned to Ethan.
"How are your exams going, sweetheart?"
Ethan’s chopsticks paused mid-air. "They’re fine."
"Just fine?" Mei pressed, her motherly concern creeping into her voice.
"Your teachers said you’ve been—"
"I said they’re fine." Ethan’s voice sharpened like a blade.
Uncle Smith cleared his throat. "Ethan...Mei we should—"
"What about that math test you were worried about?"
Mei continued, oblivious to the growing tension.
"And your English project? The teacher mentioned—"
Ethan’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood abruptly.
"Can everyone just stop?"
His voice cracked with barely contained emotion.
"I’m handling it, okay?"
There’s the breaking point.
The room fell silent. Ethan’s hands trembled slightly as he stared at his plate, walls crashing down around whatever he’d been hiding.
"I just... I need some time."
He bolted from the room. Footsteps thundered up the stairs, followed by the sharp slam of a door.
The kid is drowning in something.
Aunt Mei stared after him, confusion and hurt written across her features.
Uncle Smith reached for her hand with comfort.
Noah set down his chopsticks carefully.
"Uncle Smith, Aunt Mei... mind if I go talk to him?"
The couple exchanged glances before turning to Noah.