I went to bed late last night. I had washed my hair, and it was still too wet, so I had to wait for it to dry before going to sleep.

I slept well. Toward dawn, I had a dream.

How do I know it was almost dawn when I dreamed it? Because when I woke up, daylight had already filled the room. I didn’t want to get out of bed. I just lay there with my eyes closed, turning the same question over and over in my mind:

What did I give Mom and Dad for breakfast in my dream?

Yes, I dreamed of Mom and Dad.

In the dream, I seemed to be living in Shanghai, and my parents had come to visit me.

That morning, after breakfast, I took them out for the day. We walked out of the Nongtang, the narrow lane where I lived, and came to a wide city street. Along the sidewalk were little breakfast shops, with long tables set up outside and freshly cooked food still steaming in the morning air.

We stood by the road, getting ready to cross to the other side to catch a bus.

Just then, a woman came toward us with several large plastic bags hanging from both arms. They were filled with baozi, steamed stuffed buns, and mantou, plain steamed buns—perhaps a dozen altogether. She pushed one of the bags into Mom’s hands.

I told her that we had already eaten breakfast. Besides, we were going to be out all day, and carrying a big bag of buns around would be inconvenient. So I handed the bag back to her.

She seemed a little displeased.

But for just a moment, there was something in Mom’s eyes that made me think she wanted them.

She didn’t say anything.

Then we started across the street.

It was a very wide road, perhaps eight lanes, maybe even ten. Mom walked ahead of us and crossed it easily.

Dad walked more slowly, so I held his hand. Cars were approaching in the distance. Dad and I laughed and quickened our steps, and we made it safely across.

Mom was already standing there, waiting for us.

Then the three of us walked together to the bus stop and waited for the bus.

When I woke up, I stayed in bed with my eyes closed, trying and trying to remember what I had given Mom and Dad for breakfast in the dream.

But I couldn’t remember.

After I got up, I saw a WeChat message from my brother.

“Tomorrow is Mother’s Day,” he wrote. “I hope everything is well with Mom in heaven.”

Then he said, “I couldn’t sleep last night. I kept thinking about the night before Mom passed away.”

At that time, my brother had been at home, staying with Mom and Dad.

My brother had spent the night unable to sleep.

I had slept.

And in my sleep, I had seen Mom.

Could it be that Mom wanted some baozi and mantou?

Mom spent her whole life asking for very little. Especially in her later years, she almost never asked us for anything—not what she wanted to eat, not what she wanted to wear. Fortunately, the cooking in our family has been passed down through the years. No matter who is cooking now, so much of it still tastes like Mom.

Suddenly, I knew what I wanted to do.

Today, I would make baozi and mantou for Mom.

There wasn’t enough flour at home, so I went out to buy some. Then I went to Costco for pork. At home, I happened to have fresh Chinese chives that I had cut from a friend’s garden.

I came home, prepared the dough and the filling, and made pork-and-chive baozi. I steamed some mantou, too.

And so, this Mother’s Day, Mom can have the baozi and mantou I made for her.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

Note: A nongtang is a traditional narrow residential lane in Shanghai, lined with homes and small courtyards on both sides. It is a distinctive feature of the city’s older neighborhoods.