There are two stories society loves to tell about Asian women with white men: that we are traitors to our own race, and that we will never be fully accepted into white society. These are narratives - but when people act on them, they become realities. That is why, in the checkout line, the woman chose me and not my husband. That is why my five-year-old already knows who gets excused and who gets blamed. And that is the cruelty of microaggressions: they may look small, but they make the weight of those narratives real in our bodies.

It wasn’t just about my son being “wild” in the checkout line. It was about what the woman saw when she looked at us: a white man and an Asian woman, side by side, and the decision she made to turn her scorn toward me. That moment carried the weight of every expectation I already live under: to be the calm mom, the patient wife, the professional woman, the perfect leader. And when my five-year-old squeezed my hand and said, “It’s not your fault, Mommy. You’re a good mom,” something inside me broke. Because he already knew what his father could afford not to see: who gets a pass, and who doesn’t.