The Egg Puff Inheritance

My mother used to say that she was not as kind to me as her father was to her. She would say this while taking off her sandals, scooter helmet still on, with two to three grocery bags straining against her two-finger hook—right next to a small plastic bag with egg puffs inside.

What she meant to say was that her father often came home in similar fashion—with crispy, soggy, maida-covered egg puffs. There would be an even four in the plastic bag; a cheap, simple tradition for a man who left his job to serve the community. One for my mother, one for my grandmother, one for my aunt, but none for my grandpa.

He never claimed his share. It was up for grabs—and grab it they did, going at each other, up in arms, legs and all. My mother wanted to tell us that there would be no such sacrifice on her part. She was always going to claim her egg puff.

How is it, then, that I can’t recall her eating an egg puff even once?