The kitchen at 11:00 PM is supposed to be dark and quiet, but when my mother came to visit, it became the most active room in the house. I would lay in bed, hearing the low murmur of the exhaust fan, the soft clink of metal spoons against pots, and the rhythmic chop of vegetables on the cutting board downstairs. She would be awake late into the night, moving purposefully through my kitchen, cooking dish after dish, and meticulously stocking our refrigerator until it was practically bursting at the seams. In the beginning, Montell didn’t understand it. He’d look at the clock, then look at me, completely baffled as to why anyone would be standing over a hot stove at midnight preparing a feast when everyone was supposed to be asleep. To someone outside the culture, it looked like unnecessary labor, maybe even a boundary issue. But I knew exactly what she was doing. She was writing us a love letter. The Translation of Devotion In an Asian household, love is rarely a spoken confession. My m...