Goodbye, Vitamin is the charming story of Ruth, who returns to her childhood home for a year to help with her father who is in the early stages of dementia. The novel takes the form of a journal, with entries marked by date recording her observations of the life swirling around her.

Outside the Laundromat, two drunks are sharing a cigarette. The man has a hand tenderly cradling the back of the woman’s head, which she appears to enjoy at first, before she begins to resent it.
“You think it’s lumpy,” she says, pulling away, suddenly. “You think my head is lumpy.”
“I don’t think it’s lumpy,” he says.
“You do,” she says. “You think it’s lumpy.”
“Baby, I love your head,” he says.
“You’re saying I’m not smart,” she says. “Is that what you’re incinerating?”
He says, “I’m not incinerating a thing.”

These entries have a parallel in a journal Ruth is given by her father when she first returns home, recording his observations of her as a child trying to make sense of the world. Each entry is told from the father’s perspective (“I”) about Ruth (“you”).

Today you asked why it was that people say cloudless but not cloudful. Today you made clear that you did not know there was a difference in the spellings of “pitchers” and “pictures.” You scraped seeds off of bagels and planted them in the flower bed out front. I didn’t have the heart to tell you that there’s no such thing as a bagel tree.

As the story develops, Ruth’s entries become centered around her father. The narrative voice switches, as she takes over the adult “I” and he fills in the childlike “you.”

Today I gave you my old seashell collection. You arranged all the shells at the bottom of your fish tank in a pretty way.
“Thank you for the exoskeletons,” you said to me.
“You’re welcome,” I said to you.

The novel makes an adventure out of everyday life, with small moments becoming the milestones. Time seems to stand still while Ruth navigates the changing cognitive abilities of her father, his evolving relationship with her mother, and her own mourning of a failed relationship which prompted her return home. Ruth seems like a spectator to her life, observing with wonder, but without judgement, the life around her. As her father’s doctor advises,

“There’s nothing really to ‘do,’ he says, just be present.”
“Like in the moment” I say.
“I meant ‘around,'” he says. “But sure, that, too.”

Woody Allen wrote that showing up is 80% of life, but Khong shows us you can reach 100 by showing up and paying attention. Her quiet observations inspire one to live in the present and savor each moment for its singularity.