“Art transcends the artist’s intention. The viewer completes the work. This principle also applies to insurance valuations.”— Tago Arts Council, Appraisal GuidelinesSunday morning arrived with the smell of something that was definitely not Bánh mì.I dragged myself downstairs, following my nose toward the kitchen, and found Mom already dressed in her corporate attire despite it being early. She stood at the stove, flipping something in a pan that sizzled with an aggressive energy usually reserved for combat training.“Good morning,” she said without turning around. “Sit. Eat.”The dining parlor looked the same as always, but something felt different. Mom’s posture, maybe, or the tension in her shoulders.She set a plate in front of me. Eggs again, but scrambled with lab-grown vegetables this time, bits of green onion and what might have been lap cheong scattered throughout.“Where’s Comma?” I asked, picking up my fork.“Sleeping.” Mom poured herself a cup of coffee from the carafe on the counter. “Let her rest. She’s been staying up too late.”I thought about Comma barging into my workshop at two in the morning, smelling smoke and probably hoping I’d finally blown myself up. “Yeah. Teenagers.”Mom sat across from me, cradling her coffee but not drinking it.“I have to work more this week,” she said finally. “Again sixteen-hour shifts. The Bhavsar contract is entering final phase, and they need all senior analysts on-site for the integration.”I looked up from my eggs. “Sixteen hours? I thought you were exempt?”“Just for the next few days. Once the contract closes, I can go back to normal ten-hour schedule with the home office.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Dash. I wanted to tell you something.”I waited.“I’m proud of you.”The words blindsided me, a warmth spreading (...)