I don’t like oatmeal. But I set up this countertop oatmeal station for my Mom when she stayed with me for the holidays. I set it out without asking because I know she likes to make oatmeal with all the fixings for breakfast, and she would never ask for oatmeal, or for anything, at her own volition. Growing up during a war as the eldest of 10 will train you to stifle your needs for fear of inconveniencing others.

I made sure to set it up at no higher than 4.5 feet off the ground, to make it comfortable for her petite 4’10 frame to reach. Growing up in prolonged famine had stunted her growth permanently, just like an entire generation of Vietnamese who share her timeline.

I made sure to use the lightest containers and basket, nothing too heavy, so her 73-year-old arthritic hands can maneuver them easily, so she still feels a sense of agency and independence over the simple daily tasks.

Culturally, in our stoic ways, we don’t really say “I love you.” But I will continue to set out oatmeal stations for her, just as she will continue to bring me plates of cut fruits while I’m working. These gestures are our primary love language, and that speaks just as loudly as the words unsaid.