Vanishing Father

When Bing Hum got home late that evening from Harris, Smythe & Hum LLP, he found his fifteen-year-old daughter watching a movie-of-the-week that starred Lucy Liu in yet another of her “Asian slut” roles. Frozen in the doorway of Jade’s bedroom, he stared at the flat-screen TV screen where Lucy Liu, worse than nude in a half-bra, garter belt and stockings, lap-danced for a hairy-chested maintenance worker, her pinecone breasts thrust forward, her long waist undulating like the belly of a serpent.

Bing stood there, a bag of takeout Thai from Golden Mango dangling from his fingertips. For an instant, he wanted to barge in and shut off the TV.

“Jade.” He spoke to the back of her head. The volume from the TV was deafening and she was sprawled on the floor, her chin resting on her palms. A laptop, textbooks and a highliter littered the rug. His custody agreement gave him Jade one week out of every two, but whenever he saw her now, she seemed a little taller than before. In her volleyball sweats, her legs looked almost as long as her bed.

Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 1. Purchase the book to read the full piece.