This First Person column is by Rachel Phan, who lives in Toronto. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
I never thought the price of celery would send me spiralling.
I was on my weekly Sunday phone call with my mother when she asked, “Rachel, you know how much a box of celery was?”
She didn’t wait for me to answer. “It was $100! Before, it was $23 a box!”
I did the math in my head. A more than 300 per cent increase. No wonder my mother was upset.
Like many Canadians, my family and I feel the strain on our wallets whenever we step into a grocery store. What used to be a routine errand has become a source of stress, careful calculation and “Remember when this used to be half the price?”
But while I can choose to skip the fancy cut of beef or go without mangos for a week, my parents can’t make concessions. My mom and dad own a Chinese restaurant in Leamington, Ont. — a business they’ve operated for 34 years. They don’t have the luxury of opting out when the cost of ingredients spikes thanks to inflation — they have a menu to honour, a hungry customer base to satisfy and razor-thin margins to somehow stretch even thinner.
It’s only become worse since the pandemic.
My mom and dad tell me that everything — from oil to takeout containers — has tripled in price. Beef, once $6.60 a kilogram, is now closer to $15.40.
“Everything go up, up, up,” my mom says to me, shaking her head.
For years, my parents resisted raising the prices on their menu because they were afraid of losing customers. Mom and Dad are all too aware that some customers unfairly expect “ethnic” restaurants like ours to be cheap and plentiful — certainly cheaper than Italian, French or even fast-casual Western food.
“If it’s too expensive, people won’t come back,” my proud and stubborn dad would say, while my more pragmatic mother grew increasingly exasperated.
“I don’t care what he says. I’m going to make the prices go up,” she said to me once, before dropping her voice to a whisper. “Don’t tell your dad.”
I was relieved when they made the difficult decision to raise prices together, no subterfuge necessary. But even with the price adjustments, they’re not making what they used to.
Sometimes, Mom will find an irresistible deal on beef and buy thousands of dollars worth of it, filling every inch of our restaurant’s walk-in freezer.
We all know this isn’t sustainable. My parents are in their 60s and they’ve spent more than three decades in the kitchen, working themselves to the bone day and night. They have no pension and no meaningful retirement savings, having poured everything they’ve earned right back into their business and kids. All they have is the hope that one day they’ll be able to retire — and that those same kids will take care of them when the time comes.
This is the part I’m ashamed of admitting: I’m terrified. Their impending retirement and golden years fill me with equal parts relief and dread. Relief because after seeing their bodies break down with arthritis, fatigue and age, I’m ready for them to stop. To finally relax.
That makes the dread I feel even more shameful. As the child with the most financial security, I anticipate their care will largely fall on me when they retire. Every day, I am haunted by the question: What do I owe my parents?
I know it’s a question I, and so many other children of immigrants, have to wrestle with constantly. In many Asian cultures, looking after your aging parents financially is expected. Given how much my parents have sacrificed — fleeing war, becoming refugees, resettling in Canada, working non-stop since arriving in their new country to give their children a better life — how can my answer not be: “I owe them everything?”
But what that looks like in practice is anyone’s guess.
I live in Toronto, where everything — from rent to takeout — is already expensive. While my husband and I live comfortably, I’m still a writer. I’m not wealthy by any means, and I definitely don’t have the kind of income that could easily absorb the needs of two more people, no matter how much my mother protests that she “doesn’t eat a lot.”
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With every phone call updating me on the price of produce, I’m reminded that one day soon I’ll be caring for two aging parents with no financial cushion of their own.
It’s overwhelming. It’s stressful. I’m scared not just of the responsibility, but of what it might mean for the life I’ve built. I feel guilty for feeling resentment over this arrangement. I didn’t volunteer to be my parents’ retirement plan, but who am I to complain? All I can do is encourage them to save more and raise their prices when they can. It’s as much for their sakes as it is for mine.
These days, when I call my mom, she still updates me on the price of celery. It fluctuates and hasn’t come back to the pre-pandemic price of $23. We sigh. We repeat, “Everything is so expensive now.”
There’s no clean, clear-cut answer to what comes next.
But I do know this: my parents have always shown up for me, even in unfathomable circumstances. It’s my time and duty to do the same for them. Even though I’m scared, even though I don’t know how, I’ll show up.
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