Someone Please Tell My Wonderful Chinese Dad

that he needs to spend his money because I have no fucking clue what I will do with all of it when he is gone.  He should give generous tips at restaurants and make impulsive purchases.  He should go to the spa or fly first-class.  He should procure a tailor-made suit or smash up his Mercedes Benz.  He should gamble at the $100 minimum table.  He should get the nicer lunch special.  He should order dessert.

I know that it makes him happy to nickel-and-dime himself.  But I cannot help thinking that he also does this because he loves me, does not want me to feel unsafe or insecure, needs to constantly provide for me and my brother.  If he defines himself by the sacrifices he makes for us, his gorgeous, ungrateful, arrogant little silver shitbirds, he will come away with two handfuls of empty space.  In one hand, the empty self-denial and discomfort he needlessly suffers because he is not convinced of our happiness and thinks that he can earn it for us, store it up and hope that it yields interest, dividends.  In the other hand, the gap between us, his bemusement upon hearing our prodigal voices full of resentment and pity when we accuse him of being stingy.

I love my stingy Chinese dad because we cannot understand each other and I finally appreciate this as pure love.