text: My doorbell rings. On the step, I find the elderly Chinese lady, small and slight, holding the hand of a little boy. In her other hand, she holds a paper carrier bag. 
  
  I know this lady. It is not her first visit. She is the boy's grandmother, and her daughter bought the house next door last October. 
  
  Her daughter, Nicole, speaks fluent English. But she is now in Shanghai, and her parents are here with the little boy. Nicole has obviously told her mother that I am having heart surgery soon, so her mother has decided I need more nutrients. 
  
  I know what is inside the bag--a thermos with hot soup and a stainless-steel container with rice, vegetables and either chicken, meat or shrimp, sometimes with a kind of pancake. This has become an almost-daily practice. 
  
  Communication between us is somewhat affected by the fact that she doesn't speak English and all I can say in Chinese is hello. Once, she brought an iPad as well as the food. She pointed to the screen, which displayed a message from her daughter telling me that her mother wanted to know if the food was all right and whether it was too salty. I am not used to iPads, so she indicated I should go with her to her house. Then, she handed the iPad to her husband and almost immediately I found myself looking at Nicole in Shanghai and discussing her mother's cooking and salt intake. Instantly, tears welled in my eyes. 
  
  "Your mother just can't be bringing me meals like this all the time," I insisted. "I can hardly do dishes in return." 
  
  "Oh, no, Lucy." Nicole said. "Mum doesn't like western food. Don't worry about it; she has to cook for the three of them anyway, and she wants to do it." 
  
  The doorbell keeps ringing and there is the familiar brown paper carrier bag, handed smilingly to me. 
  
  I am now working on some more Chinese words--it's the least I can do after such display of kindness. 
  
  "Thank you" is, of course, the first one. Somehow, it seems inadequate.