On the MRT to my next destination, I opened my new Chinese seal and tried it out.  It wasn’t my name.  I studied it for a minute, since I sometimes forget my name.

I got off at the next stop and hopped on the train heading back towards the 30-square-foot shop.

“Excuse me, but . . . this isn’t my name.”

“That’s your name,” the stamp guy said, puzzled.

“Sorry, but it isn't."

He shuffled through a messy stack of papers, finding the one with my information on it.  “Here - this is what your mom wrote!”

I recognized her handwriting and remembered Mom scribbling on the pink scratch paper.  We had spent the afternoon doing errands.

“Oh, you're right.  Sorry!  I guess she doesn’t know my name.”

We laughed and I ordered another seal.

Later I asked Mom about it.

“Sorry,” she said sheepishly.  “Aiyah, why do you need your name on a seal anyway?”

“It’s for painting.”

“Aiyah, so particular.  Not necessary.”