"Notice: Due to pipe maintenance, water will be shut off for two hours from 10 PM to midnight. We apologize for any inconvenience."
The message was sent at 9:55 PM.
The group chat exploded with complaints.
I stared at my phone, then at the soggy dumplings in my bowl.
The dream... was it real?
Was my mother actually controlling me from beyond the grave?
I walked to the altar and lit three sticks of incense.
"Mom," my voice trembled, "I was wrong. I'll do what you say. Please, just leave me alone."
The ash fell without a sound.
Outside, firecrackers began to pop—the festive chaos of New Year arriving.
But I knew my New Year, from now on, would be nothing but nightmares.
Early on New Year's Eve morning, my landlord Aunt Rebecca Lambert called.
"Serena, I'm not renting anymore. My son's getting married and needs the place. Move out by the seventh. Anyway, happy New Year."
My mother always said moving during the holiday meant a year of upheaval—nothing would go right.
But I hadn't planned to move at all.
I called back, hoping to negotiate.
It rang over a dozen times. No answer.
I tried again. Straight to voicemail.
I sat on the edge of my bed, looking around the tiny room I'd lived in for three years.
Now I had seven days to pack everything and find somewhere new.
I took a deep breath. Stay calm, Serena. You can do this.
That afternoon, facing the empty apartment, I started preparing my last New Year's Eve dinner in this place.
My mother's rules: the meal must have eight dishes and one soup, must include fish, meat, and chicken, must fill the entire table—even if only one person was eating.
She called it "keeping up appearances." If you kept up appearances, you'd have confidence for the year ahead.
I took the fish I'd bought yesterday out of the fridge.
My mother always said before killing a fish, you had to recite three times: "Little fish, don't blame me—you're meant to be a dish for humanity."
I refused. I just raised the knife and brought it down, scraping off scales, cutting out gills.
I spent four hours in the kitchen and made a full table of food.
For my first bite, I picked up a piece of fish belly—the tenderest part.
And a bone lodged in my throat.
My face turned red. No matter how hard I coughed, the bone wouldn't come out.
I went to the ER alone, endured an agonizing laryngoscopy, and finally had the bone removed.
Leaving the hospital, I walked for a long time until I reached a small park.
A thin layer of snow had settled on the bench. I sat down, gazing at the warm yellow lights in the apartment building across the way.
Behind those windows, families were probably gathered together, watching the New Year's Gala, snacking, staying up to welcome midnight.
And here I was, alone on a freezing bench. My throat ached. My legs ached. My heart ached.
My phone buzzed. A photo from my friend Audrey Fox.
They were at a karaoke bar, raising glasses, laughing.
The caption: "Serena, get over here!"
I couldn't go. Not because I didn't want to—because I wasn't allowed.
My mother wouldn't let me.
I understood now. Even in death, her rules remained. Her control remained.
The moment I tried to be happy, tried to celebrate like a normal person, something would happen.
A bone in my throat. Water shut off. Landlord forcing me out.
Mom, what do I have to do for you to leave me alone?
That night, she came to me again in my dreams.
This time she wasn't wearing the red puffer jacket. She wore an ash-gray official's robe, a small character for "Year" embroidered on the chest.
She sat in a high-backed wooden chair, the Luck Ledger still in her hands.
"A fish bone?" She sneered. "That's what you get for not saying 'May there be abundance year after year' before eating! How many times did I teach you the rules for New Year's Eve dinner? You offer to the ancestors first. You say something auspicious for every dish..."
