Eleanor Chen had been carrying a secret for forty-three years.
It was not the kind of secret that weighed her down—Eleanor did not allow weight she could not use. She had transformed it, over the decades, into something else entirely. Something that looked like sharp wit and high standards and the refusal to tolerate mediocrity in anything, especially dumplings. But it was still there, tucked into a small leather box that she kept in her handbag, and on the morning after the first Sunday Dinner, she decided it was time to open it.
