The Doll at Home

We discussed plans until evening.

At 7:30, my stomach performed a full orchestra.

Only then did I realize the sky was dark.

I took out two cups of instant noodles and laughed awkwardly.

“Sorry. This is all I have.”

“Just make yours,” Adrian said. “I don’t need food.”

His voice sounded lonely.

I remembered.

He had no digestive system.

“Once you wake up,” I comforted him, “you can eat anything you want.”

He looked at the noodles.

“I actually want to eat instant noodles with you at home.”

His voice grew too soft for me to hear clearly.

He watched me finish.

Then took the bowl to wash it.

His pale, long fingers moved through soap foam.

A strange, beautiful contrast.

He placed the bowl into the disinfecting cabinet and accurately picked up my yellow cleaning cloth to wipe the stove.

I suddenly asked,

“When did you become able to see?”

His hand paused.

His ears turned suspiciously pink.

“From the moment you finished my head.”

My doll-making process started from head to body, inside to outside.

“So you watched me for almost a month?”

I nearly screamed.

No wonder he knew my house so well.

I sometimes forgot towels after showers and walked out naked.

I also said all sorts of improper things to the doll while working.

For a moment, I could not decide whether my exposed body or exposed thoughts were more humiliating.

Also, what kind of mother touches her “son” everywhere while making him?

“I’m sorry,” Adrian said seriously. “I will take responsibility.”

His tone was formal.

His blush was not.

The atmosphere became deadly ambiguous.

I fled to the bathroom to cool down.

Then—

“Adrian? Can you bring me a towel and pajamas?”

Same mistake.

Immediately after being humiliated by the exact topic.

Who would dry the water inside my brain?

He answered.

Footsteps moved outside.

One minute later, I tremblingly accepted a towel, pajamas, and underwear through the door crack.

How many times could one person die of shame in a day?

When I came out, Adrian was packing his bag.

I thought he was leaving.

“Be careful on the road.”

He looked up innocently.

“I plan to stay.”

Those eyes.

Those damn innocent dog eyes.

I made him.

I could not let my creation sleep outside.

Absolutely not because he was handsome.

I watched him move into the guest room and convinced myself of this.

The next morning, breakfast waited on the table.

My fairy-tale handsome houseguest was on the balcony hanging laundry.

Several bras swung on the rack.

I repeated internally:

A son helping his mother hang laundry.

A son helping his mother hang laundry.

Then I saw the underwear in his hand.

He had washed it.

My shame had not stopped since yesterday.

Adrian met my eyes across the living room.

“You often complained that chores were too much,” he said. “Now I can help.”

Thank you.

Crying.

Putting shame aside, having someone do housework was incredible.

Adrian took over cooking, washing, sweeping, mopping, and dishes.

More importantly, he emptied my shopping cart.

Eighty-plus items shipped.

I was willing to live with a doll forever.

No mother-in-law.

No childbirth pain.

And his monthly interest income was higher than my half-year salary.

The only problem:

“Zhaozhao, why aren’t you talking?”

“Zhaozhao, do you not want to talk to me?”

“Zhaozhao, do you not like me?”

I like you.

I really do.

Help.