Like most parents, I poured my time, money, and energy into my child.
But now, I see my son standing seriously in front of a hot grill, cooking yakisoba. He has to focus completely—one small mistake can ruin the flavor. Did I spend all those years raising him just to watch him work so hard in a restaurant kitchen?
After quitting his job in Japan, my son returned to New York and got a stable job at a university—right near the park where I go for daily walks. On nice days, we would eat lunch at well-reviewed restaurants and take walks together, arm in arm. I loved those times. Then one day, he said carefully, watching my reaction:
“Mom, my current job feels boring. I want to try something else.”
“What do you want to do if you quit?”
“I’m thinking of opening a Japanese restaurant with a partner.”
“Running a restaurant isn’t easy. Don’t you remember your grandfather? He was a chef and opened several restaurants—but they all failed.”
He stayed quiet. He’s always been cautious, and when he goes silent, it worries me. So I said,
“Well… if that’s what you really want to do, then do it. If you fail, better to fail while you’re young. You’ll learn a lot either way. Follow your heart.”
My life had been calm, free of worry or stress—but now I found myself waking up at night thinking, “What if the restaurant fails?” Then I’d tell myself, “He’s still young. If it doesn’t work out, he can find another job,” and fall back asleep.
He trained with his Japanese partner for six months, working hard to learn Japanese cooking. On July 21 last year—my wedding anniversary—they opened a Japanese fast food restaurant in the East Village. It was even hotter that day than on my wedding day. My son made me yakisoba, I could barely swallow it. I just stared at him, sweating at the grill, holding his chopsticks with tired hands—and tears rolled down my cheeks.
He worked 15 hours a day, 7 days a week, with no days off The restaurant was doing well.
“Are you okay? Isn’t it too hard?” I asked.
“I meet lots of people, and it’s fun,”
he said. After that, I tried not to call. I told myself to leave him alone.
But I visited the restaurant after some time. His cheeks were sunken, and he looked so thin.
“Why are you so skinny?”
“I don’t have time to eat,” he said. Now I had a new worry—what if he gets sick?
Eight months later, he gave the restaurant to his partner and quit.
“Mom, running a restaurant isn’t for everyone. It was way too hard.”
He looked exhausted and defeated. He started telling me everything he had gone through—but hadn’t told me before because he didn’t want me to worry. He no longer seemed like a boy.
He soon found a new job—working five days a week, 8 hours a day.
Now he takes the ferry peacefully to his office in Wall Street. He matured through the hard times, and my worries disappeared.
I remembered what my father said to me once:
“You went to America, had a hard time, and finally grew up.”