Eating McDonalds with Your Dad




There’s a dad and his son eating McDonalds together in the TPE airport. He bought him a breakfast bagel that’s way to large him for him. He’ll probably finish it too since this is a treat. They don’t talk. He takes big bites. He drinks from his large soda. The dad taps away at his computer.

Stuff like this reminds me of me and my father like crazy. We never ate McDonalds together in a Taiwanese airport, but he used to buy me hash browns as a gift. That’s all he could afford. I would nibble on it slowly as he drove back to our townhouse. Sometimes it was so hot, the paper melted with the potato.

One night, sharing a bedroom with my older brother, I was reflecting on my mom and dad fighting. I knew they hated each other, but I didn’t want him to leave, because then who would buy me hash browns?

I got to go to Taiwan, a place my dad has been. My dad has been here. I tell myself, as I binge on 7/11 pastries and exploit my privilege.

One day, I’ll be across from my son, eating McDonalds. And we’ll be talking. I swear to you, we’ll be talking.


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