Chapter 61: Trying to Help

Sylvester PoV

Tears flowed out of my eyes as I cleaned the table. I wiped them angrily with the back of my hand. Why was I still such a crybaby? I was 18 now. Would I keep crying when I'm 30, 50, 70?

I sat down and sighed. I could hear my mom's voice echoing in my head again, telling me to man up.

Suddenly, I was pulled back to a different time, a memory from when I was younger, sitting at the table in my parents' restaurant. I had been buried in my studies, textbooks sprawled out in front of me, when I saw my mom bustling around the dining area, her face set in concentration as she worked.

"Mom, can I help with anything?" I asked, eager to contribute even while I was studying for an important exam.

She barely glanced at me, her brow furrowed in focus. "No, Sylvester. You need to concentrate on your studies. That's what's important right now."

"But I want to learn! I can help with the orders or chop some vegetables," I pressed, my enthusiasm palpable.

"Your grades are what matter," she replied sharply, a hint of frustration in her voice. "Don't waste your time on this. You have to aim higher. You're capable of so much more than just helping in the restaurant."

Her words stung. I felt a mix of determination and disappointment. I wanted to be part of something, to feel that sense of accomplishment in the kitchen, but it always felt like my ambitions were dismissed. 

"I just want to make people happy with food, just like you do," I said, my voice trembling.

"Making people happy is not enough. You need to focus on your future," she insisted, her tone unyielding. "You need to make money. For that, you need to get a good job or learn the skills to run the family business, or to make your own."

I frowned. Working for money felt yucky. And also empty. Why did adults do that to themselves? I wanted to do something that made me feel happy.

Sighing, I turned back to my textbooks, trying to focus on the math problem in front of me. The numbers swirled in my mind, and I felt frustration creeping in. Maybe I should ask my mom for help, but the last time I had bothered her while she was working, she had snapped at me. I didn't want to deal with that again.

With a resigned sigh, I pushed my chair back and decided to seek out my dad instead. He was usually in the kitchen, and I could hear the familiar sounds of sizzling and chopping as I made my way there.

As I entered the kitchen, I was greeted by a mesmerizing sight. My dad was expertly tossing vegetables in a hot wok, flames leaping up with each flick of his wrist. The vibrant colors of the peppers and broccoli danced in the firelight, and the aroma was intoxicating. I stood there, mesmerized by his technique, the way he moved with confidence and precision. 

"Hey, buddy! What do you need?" my dad called out, glancing over his shoulder, a smile lighting up his face. He was handsome in his own rugged way, with a warm, approachable demeanor that made me feel at ease.

"I, uh… I'm struggling with math," I admitted, feeling a bit sheepish. "I was wondering if you could help me with a problem."

"Of course! Just give me a sec to finish this stir-fry," he said, returning his attention to the flames. I watched as he poured in a splash of soy sauce, the steam rising in fragrant plumes. It was like watching a magician at work.

As I waited, I couldn't help but admire how comfortable he was in the kitchen. He made it look effortless. I wished I could do that someday, to have that kind of skill and confidence. I wanted to be able to create something that would make people happy, just like he did.

"Alright, I'm all yours!" he said, turning off the heat and wiping his hands on a dish towel. "What's the problem?"

I hesitated for a moment, feeling a bit intimidated. "It's just a tricky equation. I can't seem to get it right."

"Let's take a look," he said, leaning closer to me as I pointed to the problem in my textbook. His presence was reassuring, and I felt my anxiety slowly ebbing away. 

As he explained the steps, I felt a surge of relief. It was so much easier to understand when he broke it down. For a moment, I forgot about my earlier frustrations and just focused on the math, feeling grateful to have someone who was willing to help.

"See? It's not so bad when you take it step by step," he said with a grin when we finally solved the problem. "You just have to keep practicing."

"Thanks, Dad," I said, my heart lighter. "You make it seem easy."

He laughed and quickly began to plate his food.

The door swung open and mom leered at me. "Sylvester, are you bothering your father at this time? It's rush hour. We got a ton of customers out there!"

"Relax, Keyla, I got it," Dad said as he finished. He handed some plates to Mom. "Here you go, dear."

She sighed and turned around. "Go back to studying, Sylvester. If you can't figure something out, consult the book."

I pouted as she left, the door swinging shut behind her. The book made things more complicated than they were. I felt a wave of frustration wash over me, but before I could dwell on it, I felt my dad's hand on my shoulder.

"Hey, don't take it personally," he said gently, patting me on the back. "Your mom's just stressed. This time of day gets hectic for her. She wants everything to run smoothly, and sometimes she forgets that you're just trying to learn and help."

I nodded, appreciating his reassurance, but it didn't fully ease my disappointment. I glanced at the dishes piled on the counter, waiting to be delivered. The vibrant colors of the stir-fry my dad had just made caught my eye, and I suddenly felt a spark of excitement.

"Do you think… maybe I could help with those?" I asked hesitantly, pointing to the plates.

"Absolutely!" he said, his face lighting up. "It'll be good practice for you. Plus, it'll give your mom a break. Just be careful and make sure to watch where you're going."

With a newfound sense of purpose, I set my textbooks aside and grabbed a few plates, balancing them carefully in my hands. The warm aroma of the food wrapped around me, and I felt a thrill at being a part of the action, even if it was just for a moment.

As I stepped into the dining area, the noise of conversation and laughter enveloped me. I navigated through the tables, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement. I got to help my mommy!

I approached a table where a family was seated. "Here you go! One stir-fry and one special pasta," I said, trying to sound confident.

"Thanks, kid!" one of the diners replied, smiling at me. I felt a rush of warmth at the compliment. I could see my dad peeking through the kitchen door, giving me a thumbs-up, and it made me feel even prouder.

As I delivered more plates, I found myself relaxing into the rhythm of the restaurant. I could hear the clinking of glasses and the sound of laughter blending into a comforting hum. Maybe this was where I belonged, helping out in a way that felt meaningful.

I went to grab the last plate, my heart racing with excitement and anticipation. I was so inside my head, envisioning how proud my mom and dad would be, that I didn't realize a chair was pulled out far too close to the path I was taking. 

In an instant, my foot caught the leg of the chair, and I felt myself lose balance. Time seemed to slow as I stumbled forward, the plate with the steaming food flying out of my hands. 

"No!" I shouted, instinctively reaching out to catch it, but it was too late. The plate hit the ground with a loud crash, splattering pasta and stir-fry everywhere. The vibrant colors of the food splashed across the floor like a chaotic painting, and the sound of laughter in the restaurant abruptly silenced.

I stood frozen for a moment, my heart sinking as I processed what had just happened. The diners at the table stared in shock, and I could feel heat creeping up my cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and panic washing over me.

"Oh no, I'm so sorry!" I blurted out, my voice shaky as I knelt down to assess the damage. My hands trembled as I picked up the remnants of the plate, feeling like I had just ruined everything.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I reached for the shards, but then a hand grabbed my wrist. I looked up, and my mom's stern face was glaring down at me, her expression a mix of frustration and disappointment.

"Sylvester! What are you doing?" she scolded, her voice sharp. "I told you to focus on your studies, not run around, doing orders!"

"I—I wanted to help!" I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. My heart raced as I felt the heat of embarrassment wash over me. "I thought it would make things easier for you."

"Easier? Look at this mess!" she snapped, gesturing to the food splattered across the floor. "You've made it worse! We have customers waiting, and now I have to clean this up on top of everything else."

I shrank back, my shoulders slumping under the weight of her words. The warmth I had felt moments before was replaced by a cold wave of shame. I had tried to do something good, but it had only ended in disaster.

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice trembling. "I didn't mean to—"

"Sorry isn't enough, Sylvester!" she cut me off, her tone unyielding. "You need to take this seriously. You can't just jump into things without thinking. You're not a child anymore. You're fourteen."

I felt the tears spill over, and I wiped them angrily with my sleeve, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity. The glances from the diners felt like daggers, and I wished I could just disappear. 

My dad appeared from the kitchen, his expression shifting from concern to understanding as he took in the scene. "Keyla, maybe we should—"

"No, this is exactly why I'm strict with him," she interrupted, her voice rising. "He needs to learn responsibility, not play around when we have a restaurant to run!"

I cried and ran to the kitchen. Why was mom so mean? I just wanted to help. God, why was I such a failure? W-why couldn't I be more like Daddy?

I heard the door swing open, and I looked up to see my dad stepping into the kitchen, concern etched on his face. "Sylvester!" he called softly, approaching me with cautious steps. "Are you alright?"

I wiped my eyes hastily, trying to hide my tears. "I'm fine," I mumbled, though it was clear I wasn't.

He crouched down next to me, his expression gentle. "You don't have to pretend with me. It's okay to feel upset. You're human, and everyone makes mistakes."

"I just wanted to help, Dad," I said, my voice trembling. "But I messed everything up. I wanted to make things easier for Mom, but I did the opposite!"

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know, son. But helping out is a learning experience. It's not always going to go perfectly, and that's okay. What matters is that you tried."

I sighed. "But Mom was so angry… I don't want to let her down."

"She's just stressed, especially during rush hour. It's not easy running a restaurant," he replied, his voice calm and understanding. "She cares about you, Sylvester. She wants you to succeed."

I nodded slowly, feeling the lump in my throat loosen just a bit. "I just want to be good at something."

"And you will be," he assured me. "You just have to keep practicing. Now, run upstairs and work on your studies. That should help your mom's anger die down a little."

I nodded and picked up my textbooks from where I left them. Maybe if I became a scholar or something, my mom would be proud of me.

"Send me a text if you run into another difficult problem."

I smiled and nodded before running upstairs.

As I settled at my desk, I opened my math book and stared at the equations on the page. My mind drifted back to the kitchen, to the warmth of the stove and the smell of sizzling vegetables. I could almost picture my dad expertly flipping the ingredients, the confidence in each movement. 

I wanted that. I wanted to feel that same confidence, that same joy in what I did—whether it was in academics or cooking. 

I sighed as I returned to the present. I hadn't changed in those past four years. Still the same useless crybaby. Would I ever change?