1. Chapter One #2
There’s a small pause on the other end, like she’s checking to make sure she heard me correctly.
“You will?”
“Yeah.” I press my palm against my eye, breathing out slowly. “I’ll figure out the details. Just … send me the address for the reading. And the funeral information, if you have it.”
“Okay.” Relief floods her voice, mixed with worry. “Okay, sweetheart. I’ll text you everything.”
I nod, though she can’t see it, and murmur a quiet goodbye before letting the phone drop from my ear. The street in front of me blurs slightly, streetlights smearing into halos as I sit there on the curb, feeling the ground shift beneath a life I thought I’d left settled for good.
The Genesis’s tires crunch over gravel as I pull into the small lot at the bottom of the hill, the engine ticking as it cools. I sit there for a second longer than I need to, hands still on the wheel, before I finally cut it and grab my bag from the back seat.
The second I step out, the cool salt-tinged air of the port town washes over me. The late spring breeze combs through my hair, tugging at the collar of my jacket. I lean back against the car door, just for a moment, and let my eyes travel over the view spread out below.
The harbor stretches out at the bottom of the hill, small fishing boats bobbing gently at their moorings, their hulls catching the afternoon light.
Houses dot the incline in uneven rows, roofs a patchwork of tile and tin, climbing up toward where I stand like they’re trying to escape the water.
I used to think this town looked like it was sliding into the sea, everything tilted and pressed together, buildings leaning on each other for support.
My chest tightens as I take it all in. I remember running these same streets, sneakers slapping against pavement, my lungs burning as I raced down toward the water, always a step behind the boy who used to be faster than me.
I can almost hear it: his laugh carrying on the wind, the sound of his voice calling my name, telling me to hurry up, taunting.
I remember the way he’d wait for me at the bottom of the hill, arms crossed and grinning, pretending to be annoyed even though we both knew he loved beating me every time.
I close my eyes and breathe out slowly through my nose, letting the memory pass through me and out again.
I don’t have room for that today. I press my palm flat against the cool metal of the car door then push off and click the locks with a soft beep before I turn away from the harbor and start up the hill.
The climb burns in my calves almost immediately, muscle memory the only thing keeping my pace steady as the incline steepens.
I pass houses I recognize, faded paint and low walls, a few new additions here and there that weren’t there a decade ago.
Somewhere a dog barks, and the smell of grilled fish drifts from an open window.
By the time I reach the house, my shirt clings damply to my back, my breath a little short. The wall around the yard is the same as every house on the block, a low concrete fence topped with terracotta tile, the gate a faded blue with Heo painted in white characters across the metal.
I push it open and step into the neat, cleanly swept yard.
There are baskets and boxes stacked along the side wall, marked in black marker with dates and contents, leftovers from the funeral, no doubt, offerings from neighbors who came to pay their respects.
The sight makes my throat close up briefly.
The side door slides open at the sound of the gate, and I glance up to see my mother stepping out onto the small landing, wiping her hands on the front of her apron.
Her face looks pale, lined with an exhaustion that goes beyond just a bad night’s sleep, but when she sees me, her expression softens and becomes warm, it makes the tightness in my chest ease just slightly.
She comes down the steps quickly for a woman her age, arms already reaching for me. I drop my bag and let her pull me into a hug, her frame smaller than I remember against mine, her hands gripping the back of my shirt.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmurs against my shoulder, her voice thick.
I shake my head, throat tight, and pull back just enough to look her over properly. There are new lines around her eyes, a tiredness that sits deep in her bones, but she’s still my mother, still solid despite everything the years have put her through.
“How’s it been?” I ask quietly, my hand still resting on her arm.
She lets out a breath, glancing toward the house, then back at me, giving me a small, tired smile.
“Come inside,” she says instead of answering, patting my arm before turning back toward the door. “You must be hungry. I made food.”
The inside of the house is cool but dim after the brightness of the yard. The quiet inside seems to press against my ears. My mother flicks on a light in the front room as we step through the door, and I toe off my shoes, lining them up beside a pair of hers on the mat.
I look around while she moves toward the kitchen, taking in the space I’ve never actually stood in before.
It feels strange, being here. This house exists because of money I sent every month for the last eight years, and yet it’s the first time I’ve set foot inside it.
She always insisted I didn’t need to visit, that she was fine on her own, that I should save the money for gas instead of wasting it on a trip down south.
I never fought her on it as hard as I probably should have.
The walls are a soft cream color, decorated sparsely but with care.
A calendar hangs by the kitchen doorway, dates circled in red pen.
Above the television, in a simple wooden frame, is a photo from my college graduation.
I remember that day: the cap slightly too big on my head, my mother standing beside me in a dress she’d probably saved for months to buy, both of us squinting against the sun outside the auditorium.
She’d taken the bus up alone, four hours each way, just to watch me walk across that stage for ten minutes.
Beside it hangs another frame, older, the corners a little worn. My father, my mother, and me at eleven years old, squeezed onto our old couch for what would turn out to be the last photo we ever took as a family. I remember that day too, though with a bit more melancholy.
My eyes drift to a smaller frame sitting on the bookshelf near the window. Two eighteen-year-old boys in caps and gowns, one grinning wide enough to show all his teeth, the other rolling his eyes but smiling. I don’t need to look closely to know which one is me.
Hey, at least I graduated, you punk.
I can still hear him say it, clear as if he were standing right behind me now, indignant after I asked if placing fiftieth in a class of sixty really warranted a celebration. My chest tightens with a sharper ache.
I look away, back toward the kitchen, my throat too tight to say anything just yet.
“Come on,” my mother calls, already pulling bowls down from the cabinet, the clatter of dishes filling the quiet. “Put your things in the spare room first. Then eat. You must be starving after that drive.”
I follow her voice down a short hallway, past a bathroom with a fogged mirror and a closet stacked with folded towels, until she stops in front of a door and pushes it open.
The spare room is small, a neatly made bed against one wall, a wooden desk in the corner with nothing on it but a small potted plant.
It smells faintly of fabric softener, like she aired the sheets out just for tonight.
“This is yours whenever you need it,” she says, watching me set my bag down on the edge of the bed. It’s a softly made statement, an offer disguised as a statement, clearly she’s hoping I’ll take her up on it more than just this once.
I nod, not trusting my voice, and let my palm rest briefly against the blanket.
“Come on, wash up,” she says gently, patting my shoulder before turning back toward the kitchen. “Food’s getting cold.”
We sit across from each other at the low table on the living room floor, the same one she’s probably had since before I left, its surface scratched and worn smooth in places from years of use.
Steam curls up from the stew between us, the smell of soybean paste and green onion filling the small space.
She’s quiet as she ladles rice into my bowl, quieter than I remember her being, and I watch the way her hands move, careful but slower than they used to be.
My mother’s tired but different then when she used to work over a stove for ten hours.
This tiredness sits behind her eyes, weighs down the corners of her mouth.
I remember her coming home from the restaurant when I was young, her clothes smelling of fermented paste and grease, her shoulders slumped, but there was always something underneath that exhaustion, some spark that kept her moving.
Now she just looks worn thin, hollowed out.
“So,” she says finally, setting down the ladle and looking at me with an expression that’s trying so hard to be normal. “Tell me about your job. How are your students?”
I take the opening gladly, grateful for something easy to hold onto. “They’re a handful,” I say, picking up my chopsticks. “Last week one of them asked me if I was married because, and I quote, ‘you look really sad for someone your age.’”
That gets a laugh out of her, my lungs loosen slightly at the sound of it.
“Middle schoolers have no filter,” I continue, warming to the subject now that I’ve got her attention. “One kid told me my haircut looked like I lost a bet. Another asked if I dye my hair because I’m ‘trying to look younger than I am.’”
“Oh, stop.” She waves a hand at me, though she’s smiling now, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “They sound like little terrors.”