The silence stretched until I couldn't hold it anymore. When I finally spoke, my voice came out scraped raw.
"You're not my daughter, are you?"
The air went dead.
She looked up at me. Something cold flickered at the corner of her eyes, there and gone, and then it was confusion and meekness again.
"Mom, what are you even saying? If I'm not your daughter, then who is?"
I clenched my fists and stared at her without blinking.
"Impossible. You're not my daughter."
"None of it lines up—not a single memory!"
Emma paused. Then she set the durian down and laughed.
"The night before the exam, you made me sweet rice balls in brown sugar syrup. Your own hands. And what I'm scared of is caterpillars—not cockroaches."
"Cockroaches are *your* thing. You shriek every time you see one, and I'm the one who charges over and smashes it with a shoe. Isn't that right, Mom?"
She caught my stunned expression.
Her smile stretched wider.
"I was messing with you. Look at your face."
"All right, all right. You're getting on in years—I won't pull that kind of joke again."
I stood there, numb, watching Emma scoop up the kitten and carry it off to be fed. Something in my chest unclenched—but it didn't settle all the way down.