I had a bite of this seemingly juicy soup dumpling. Little did I know that it wasn’t soup. It was anxiety boiling up within a sheet of silence that is creasing under the heat. Today is the day.

This restaurant near Eastwood train station is humming with couples in their thirties with their kids. They want to pass on their culture to these third generation immigrants, I get it. I used to be an immigrant too. I came to Australia when I was thirty with little Ben. I worked very hard as an accountant. I also learned the Australian language by watching Parliamentary debates.

“That this House do now adjourn!” says me whenever Ben wanted something from me. Obviously a cry and a growl would follow. I don’t have the energy to care. I have a job, a child, two kidneys and no man.

Ben’s teacher called me last month. He said Ben has been eating his middle finger a lot in class. Apparently Ben has also been brushing his willy with his paint brush and sometimes make his neighbour Michael do the painting for him. No wonder the crotch of his pants has been rendered with all sorts of colours. That’s just a phase I thought. Every boy goes through that curious phase. I remember sticking a bamboo cane, with which I was often hit, up my dad’s butt hole.

But Mr Dawes called me again today. He said Ben got a 95 out of a 100 in his English test and he is no longer do the curious stuff. See, it was just a phase. Mr Dawes congratulated me for my efforts in raising an academic child.

I have decided that today would be the day I ask little Ben, “how are you?” It’s the most Australian thing to ask yet I’ve never said that in a meaningful way to Ben.

I wanted to say it before we have dumplings. I didn’t. I couldn’t. The words were stuck in my throat.

I wanted to say it while it poured him tea before dumplings came out. I didn’t. I couldn’t. The words were stuck in the fart that couldn’t be released.

I wanted to say it while the dumpling were out. I didn’t. I couldn’t. The words were trapped in little dumplings who these important words hostage in their soupy filling.

But I really wanted to know is going on in Benny’s mind. It’s out of character for him to get a 95.

“Um Benny,”

“Yes mum?”

“I can’t believe it, I taught you English, you were basically born here.”

“Yes mum?”

“You know you got a 95 in English. In other words you dropped points. Must be some silly mistakes.”

“Sorry mum.”

“How are you?” I finally said it while the soup and the flavours flood in my mouth so my speech could come out garbled.