Bitter and Sweet

Lily Wong stood outside Sweet Pearl Boba, her family's shop in Houston's Chinatown, and tried not to cry.

The shop looked worse than she'd expected. The awning was faded, one of the neon characters in the Chinese sign was burned out, and through the window she could see her mother hunched over the register, looking a decade older than the last time Lily had visited.

Three months ago, Lily had been a rising star at a tech startup in Austin. Director of Marketing at twenty-nine, six-figure salary, corner office with a view. Then the company went under, taking her stock options and her career momentum with it.

Now she was back in Houston, moving into her childhood bedroom above the boba shop, with nothing to show for the last seven years except student loan debt and a bruised ego.

"別站在那裡發呆," her mother's voice called from inside. (Don't just stand there daydreaming.) "進來幫忙!" (Come inside and help!)

Lily grabbed her suitcase and pushed through the door, the familiar chime announcing her arrival. The shop smelled like she remembered—brown sugar, tapioca, jasmine tea. But it was empty. At 3 PM on a Saturday, Sweet Pearl should have been packed with teenagers and families. Instead, her mother was alone, organizing straws that didn't need organizing.

"媽," Lily said, setting down her bag. (Mom.)

Her mother looked up, and her stern expression cracked just slightly. "你回來了." (You came back.)

"I said I would."

"You say a lot of things." Her mother's Cantonese had the sharp edge of old disappointments. "You said you'd visit for Chinese New Year. You said you'd call more. You said you'd—"

"I'm here now," Lily interrupted. "And I'm staying. So you can either keep listing my failures or you can tell me what needs to be done."

Her mother studied her for a long moment, then handed her an apron. "Inventory. The suppliers are coming Monday and I need to know what we need to order."

They worked in silence for an hour, Lily counting supplies while her mother served the handful of customers who trickled in. It was depressing how empty the shop was. When Lily was growing up, Sweet Pearl had been the place to get boba in Houston's Chinatown. Now it felt like a relic.

"媽," Lily said finally. "What happened? Where are all the customers?"

Her mother's mouth tightened. "去對面." (They go across the street.)

"Across the street?"

Her mother pointed out the window. Lily followed her gaze and felt her stomach drop.

Across the street was a new boba shop—all modern minimalism and Instagram-worthy aesthetics. The sign read "The Tea Collective" in English and Chinese, with a sleek logo that probably cost more than Sweet Pearl's entire inventory. Through the flo...