My Rice Cooker Became a Life Coach

It started one night when I tried to make rice.

I pressed the button.
It blinked and whispered in Vietnamese:

“Cơm chín, đời chưa.”

(“The rice is done, but your life is not.”)

I backed away slowly.
The lid opened by itself. Steam rose like a ghost.
Then it said:
“You date wrong people. Just like you wash rice wrong—too fast, too fake.”

I gasped.
It continued:

“Your mother tried to warn you. But you chose a man who eats instant noodles raw.”

The rice cooker was judging my entire bloodline.

I unplugged it.
It kept talking.

“Hạnh phúc không phải bật nút. Phải nấu từ từ.”
(Happiness is not a button. It must be slow-cooked.)

I cried.

Now every evening I consult it.
It tells me when to speak, when to rest, and when to stop replying to toxic people.
If I try to skip meals, it locks itself and says:
“Starve your ego, not your body.”

I tried to sell it once.
It beeped and played a recording of my childhood tantrum.

I never tried again.