Every time I go home, my mom always fills my suitcase.

Cured meat. Sausages. Pickled vegetables. Apples. Her homemade chili sauce. Bottled mineral water, wrapped in three layers of plastic bags.
I say, You can buy these in the city.
She says, They’re not the same at home.
Last year during May Day. When I was leaving, she packed as usual. I pushed as usual.
Pushing and pushing. She stopped.
“Do you think it’s troublesome?”
I say, No.
“If you think it’s troublesome, I won’t pack anymore.”
She takes out the items one by one. Puts them back in the fridge. Moves slowly.
I stand at the door. The suitcase is empty.
That day, I didn’t take anything with me.
When I opened the suitcase in the city.
Inside was a bottle of chili sauce.
She packed it while I wasn’t paying attention.
There’s a sticky note on the bottle.
“Mom won’t pack anymore from now on. This is the last time.”
The chili sauce is finished. The bottle wasn’t thrown away.