‘Here, ah mui.’

I’ve just stepped through the glass door to our family takeaway, past the waiting room and through another wooden door next to the giant red-brick counter to get upstairs. Before I can even take my shoes off, Mum springs up seemingly out of nowhere and hands me several packs of spring roll wrappers. I’m twelve years old and have just finished another long day at school. A few of my close friends are in tow, all of us with the hope of gossiping and relaxing for a little while before the takeaway opens for the evening. ‘Take one and pass one along to your school friends. Carefully peel and separate each layer. Make sure you don’t rip holes in them and when you’re done put them back in the packet.’

‘Unlucky, mui,’ my brother Jacky says, as he barges past me and makes a break for it past the counter and upstairs to our bedroom. My other brother, Keen, follows suit and as he passes snarkily reminds me, ‘Well, it is your turn.’

I look back up at Mum, who’s looking as determined as ever, and I realise there’s no point fighting. She forces the wrappers on me and leaves me and my friends (who are now looking slightly bewildered) to get on with it while she goes to the living room down the hallway to put her feet up in front of the TV for a rare five minutes to herself before service.

Book of the week: read an extract from Angela Hui’s moving memoir, Takeaway