Page 10 of The Keeper

“Do not drop everything to come home,” my mother said firmly. “We have this handled. There’s nothing you can do anyway.”

“I know, but I have to do something.” I paced back and forth. Lavinia let me leave work early when I told her what happened, and I was currently holed up in RAB’s break room, trying to figure out ways to help. “How much will the repairs and everything cost?”

Silence.

I stopped pacing. “Mum. How much?”

“Fifteen thousand for the roof, plus another fifteen to fix the interior and replace the ruined furniture. So a total of thirty thousand pounds or so.”

My stomach plummeted. “Thirty thousand pounds? Are you sure?”

“We might be able to shave off a couple thousand for the furniture, but your father called multiple contractors about the repairs. They all quoted us similar prices.”

Oh my God. I pinched the bridge of my nose, my pulse a frantic drum.

My mother was trying to sound calm, but I could hear the crack of stress in her voice. The roof collapse was due to wear and tear, which meant insurance wouldn’t cover it. They’d have to pay for repairs out of pocket.

My father ran a small pho shop that he’d inherited from my grandfather, and my mother taught statistics at a local university. They made a decent living, but they couldn’t afford such a huge expense. Not when the restaurant wasn’t doing well—fierce competition had popped up in recent years and siphoned away a lot of its business—and they’d already spent a good chunk of money replacing my mother’s old car last month.

They could handle maybe half the cost themselves. As for the other fifteen thousand…

That’s how much is in your savings account.

The thought floated through my mind and stuck. I’d never provided for my parents financially, which had always been a source of quiet shame. My friends wouldn’t get it because it wasn’t part of their upbringing, but the concept of filial piety was ingrained in Asian culture. Most of my parents’ friends had children who sent them money every month; I was the only one who didn’t. I couldn’t afford it. My parents never made me feel bad about it, but they didn’t need to guilt trip me; I felt guilty enough on my own.

But now, I had a chance to make it up to them. To prove I wasn’t a failure.

I resumed pacing, my heart climbing into my throat. Could I? Should I? I’d spent years saving up that money, but this was my family. They’d worked tirelessly to provide for me my entire life. How could I not help them?

“I’ll pay for the roof repairs,” I said, my mouth moving before my brain fully caught up. “You and Dad focus on everything else.”

I’d have to drain my Antarctica account, but I was young. I had time to replenish my savings while they needed to fix the house immediately. The decision was obvious.

“Where would you—” My mother sucked in a breath as the pieces clicked into place. “No. You are not wiping out your savings for us.”

“Your house is more important than some trip.”

“It’s not ‘some trip,’ Carina. You’ve been saving for years for it.”

I stilled.

I was my parents’ only child, and I’d lived with the certainty that I was a huge disappointment to them since college, where I majored in art history instead of anything “useful.” To make matters worse, I didn’t even use that degree after graduation. I’d worked for a year at an art gallery and realized I hated that world, so I’d floated from job to job until I found the assistant position at RAB.

They never said it, but I caught the concerned looks they gave each other every time I mentioned Antarctica. Their friends’ children wanted to save lives and make a difference, while their daughter’s biggest goal was to see a bunch of penguins. I was sure they secretly wanted to talk me out of wasting my money on something so trivial.

But perhaps I’d been wrong.

This was the first time my mother had acknowledged how important the trip was to me, and it hit me harder than I’d expected.

I swallowed past the sudden lump in my throat. “Exactly. I saved up once. I can do it again.” When she didn’t respond, I switched to Vietnamese. I wasn’t fluent, but I knew enough for everyday conversation. “Please, Mum. Let me take care of this for you.”

There was another, longer pause. “Okay,” she finally said, her voice soft. “Thank you.”

I could count the number of times she’d outright thanked me on one hand. That was how I knew I’d done the right thing.

“Are you eating properly?” my mother asked, switching subjects. “You’ve been looking a little too skinny in your recent photos. What are they feeding you over there in London?”

For the next ten minutes, she lectured me about the importance of vitamins and a well-rounded diet. Once she was finished, I promised to visit so she could make a “proper broth” for me. She was correct in guessing I’d never make those broths myself; they had to simmer for hours, and I didn’t have the time or patience.