I was nine years old when I finally learned Ma's divine fixer-upper technique.

  One afternoon, I asked Ma if I could watch her fix something. She agreed without hesitation.

  "We'll fix that table."

  She pointed to a small wooden table crouched in the far corner of the living room, one leg bent inward at an awkward angle like it was ashamed of itself. The corner it lived in was dim and forgotten, where dust gathered like it had signed a long-term lease.

  I nodded and helped her drag the table to the center of the room. I prepared to observe a master at work.

  At first, Ma worked gently. She crouched beside it with calm focus, moving her hands the way those soft-spoken EdenTube handymen did. Slow. Careful. Professional.

  For about a minute.

  Then her mask began to peel. Her touch transformed from a healer's caress into an ogre's butchering party. The table started to creak. Then it began to wail. The living room filled with what could only be described as the dying screams of furniture.

  Ma ripped off the broken leg and tossed it aside. "Give me the yellow one from the toolbox."

  I looked at the screw with the plus-sign head. Ma's using that swirly nail with plus-shaped head. Meaning I should find the screwdriver with the plus tail. I peered into the toolbox, but my heart sank. There were dozens of screwdrivers of every imaginable size, but they shared one devastating trait: they were all yellow.

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  I looked back at her. "Which one?"

  "The one I can use," Ma snapped.

  That tells me nothing. No choice. I reached in blindly, grabbed one, and offered it up.

  She snatched it and stared at me. "What is this?"

  I pointed at the tool in her hand, my voice dripping with my newly discovered sarcasm. "The yellow one. The one you can use."

  "Wrong." She shoved it back at me. "The one that's steel."

  Strange. Ma hadn't even tried to fit the tip to the screw. How could she possibly know it wouldn't work? I looked back into the box. All of them are made of steel. That narrows down nothing.

  Recalling that the previous screwdriver had looked a bit too large, I hunted for a smaller plus-tipped version and handed it over. Ma took it, squinting her eyes in a way that signaled she had never seen it before. "What is this?"

  Wrong again?

  "Why do you keep giving me these things?" Ma growled. "Give me that!" She leaned over me, her hand diving into the box to retrieve a massive, heavy-duty hammer.

  Hammer? What-

  Before Ma slammed the hammer onto the nail, I quickly stopped her. "Ma! Ma, wait! What are you doing? That's a hammer!"

  She froze, the hammer poised in mid-air. "So?"

  "You're using a swirly nail, not a smooth, straight one!"

  "What's the difference?" she asked, genuinely annoyed. "They're all nails."

  Before I could mount a defense for the laws of physics, she brought the hammer down with the fury of a vengeful spirit.

  The impact was so violent the sound didn't just hit my ears. It rattled every bone in my body. Even the crows outside cawed in protest before dropping off the power lines. When the dust settled, I took a cautious peek at the screw. It was driven perfectly into the wood. No cracks, no splinters, no chips.

  "How...?" I muttered, breathless.

  "Efficiency, child. It's all about efficiency." She clicked her tongue, wiping her brow. "With the right amount of force, you can fix anything."

  My brain attempted to process this. Was it questionable? Yes. Was it dangerous? Extremely. Was it fixed? Absolutely. The furniture hadn't been given a choice. It either had to heal itself or lose its life.

  From that day on, I etched Ma's "wisdom" into my very muscles:

  Efficiency is the key.

  Force is everything.