I spend the entire day trapped at home like a prisoner under house arrest, surrounded by watchful eyes and well-meaning concern that makes me want to scream.
Mrs. Wen appears every hour with something new for me to consume, mostly fruits sliced into perfect pieces, bowls of plain rice, and endless variations of soup that all taste vaguely the same despite her insistence that they're different recipes with different nutritional benefits.
"This one is good for blood flow," she says, setting down a bowl of clear broth with floating herbs. "The baby needs proper circulation."
I nod and eat it because refusing would just make her worried, and a worried Mrs. Wen is somehow worse than the soup.
