It was 1991, an ordinary night destined to be extraordinary—for it was the night I was born into a family bursting with warmth and flavor, quite literally.
"It's a boy! He's healthy!"
The nurse's voice echoed outside the delivery room.
"Really? Let me see! I want to see him!"
My mother, Christine, though exhausted after giving birth, wore a smile as gentle as spring breeze. Holding onto my father Jay's hand, she softly stroked the tiny bundle of chubbiness in the swaddle, who had yet to open his eyes.
"Our little Alan is finally here," she whispered.
And just like that, I became the second child of our family. My older brother Jacky was three years my senior, and our little sister Eve wouldn't arrive until seven years later, completing our family of five.
As a child, I was the type of chubby kid whose cheeks people just couldn't resist pinching. But I wasn't the adorable kind of chubby—I was the out-of-breath-after-two-steps kind. My grades were average, my health wasn't great, and to top it off, I was addicted to video games. I'd spend hours glued to the screen, eyes shining with digital devotion.
"Alan! Stop playing already! Come eat dinner!" My mom's signature "kitchen yell" echoed through the house.
"Wait! I haven't finished this round yet!" I shouted, eyes locked on my character in Ragnarok Online, fingers flying across the keyboard.
"You always say 'wait'! How many 'waits' do you have? Did you do your homework?"
"I did!" I replied confidently—though my homework was still buried at the bottom of my bag, untouched.
Our family ran a small eatery, and business started before dawn. My dad was always the first to rise, chopping vegetables in the kitchen before the sun even came up. The clanging of the wok was my alarm clock. Mom handled the cash register and cooking. It was a family hustle, chaotic but full of life.
I often spent the night at my grandparents' house near school. It was an old British-style home, slightly rundown but rich in childhood memories. The house had two floors and a basement—we all slept in the bottom floor, which felt damp in winter but surprisingly cozy.
"Alan, wanna watch wrestling with Grandpa tonight?"
"Will the guy who breathes fire be on?"
"They're showing The Undertaker tonight!"
"Wow! Then I want instant noodles with it!"
Grandpa would open the noodles while showing me wrestling moves. "When you grow up, you have to be strong like them. Don't just sit around playing games."
"I'm going to grow up and play Warcraft!"
Grandma, on the other hand, was always terrified I'd go hungry. She'd feed me six meals a day—breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner, late dinner, and midnight snack—all lovingly prepared and piping hot.
"Alan, eat some more of this egg roll."
"I can't eat anymore..."
"Oh, nonsense. Boys need to grow tall."
"Okay... just a little bit."
"A little more than a little bit!"
Though I wasn't exactly a social butterfly, I wasn't a loner either. At school, I was often bullied—kids hid my backpack, excluded me from soccer games—but I had two loyal buddies: Peter and Sen. They were just like me—playful, allergic to studying, and always ready to sneak off for soda.
"Did you do your homework?" Sen asked, sipping a cold drink.
"Yeah… yesterday's."
"Hey, I meant today's!"
"Oh no, are we in trouble again?"
"Run!"
Then there was my brother Jacky—the popular, athletic type. He was already known for his soccer skills when I was still in elementary school. He had friends everywhere. Every time he went out, I would beg to tag along.
"Jacky, can I come play soccer with you?"
"No way. You get winded after two steps. How are you gonna play?"
"I won't play, I'll just watch!"
"Every time you say that, you end up running onto the field and kicking someone."
"Hehe… I promise I won't this time!"
"You've promised a hundred times already!"
Later on, Jacky started learning Latin dance. The reason was simple—his dance partner, Sophia, was beautiful. I didn't understand what was so fun about dancing. I figured he was just "seduced by beauty."
"You're not afraid of people laughing at you for dancing?" I asked, munching on fried chicken.
"You don't get it. This is art," Jacky rolled his eyes.
"You just want to hold hands with a pretty girl every day, huh?"
"Shut up!"
I grinned like a cat. "No way I'm doing that. It's so embarrassing."
But fate loves to joke—six months later, it was my turn to learn dance.
My parents thought we spent too much time indoors playing games, ruining our eyes and our health. So they started learning Latin dance themselves.
"Look at us," my dad said proudly. "Even at our age, we can dance well. You youngsters should pick it up even faster."
"Dance is a sport too," he added. "Keep dancing and you'll lose weight."
They dragged Jacky in first. Thanks to Sophia, he was at least somewhat willing. As for me, I knew dancing was "embarrassing," but I still got forced into it.
"Mom, I really don't want to learn..."
"You keep this up, you'll get heart disease from being overweight."
"I do exercise—I play Dance Dance Revolution!"
"That doesn't count! You need real lessons with a teacher!"
"I don't want to hold hands with girls. That's weird!"
"Weird? Your dad and I have been holding hands for decades!"
And just like that, I became a Latin dance student, stepping into the dance studio six months later than my brother. I stood at the back of the room, awkward and stiff, completely unlike my confident gamer self. The moment the teacher called out "turn," I'd get dizzy. The instant they shouted "basic step," my feet tangled into knots.
Little did I know, that reluctant decision marked the beginning of something life-changing.
Dance, as it turned out, wasn't just movement to music. It would become
my path out of the shell I'd built—and it would lead me to someone destined to change my life.
Her name… was Sophia.