The Eyes Are the Best Part

by Monika Kim

She never dared to argue with my father, who in our home was both a king and a god. His word was law; the rest of us, his pawns, did what we were told to do.

I can’t help but wonder what Umma would have been like if she had followed her brothers and sisters instead of staying behind. Would she still be this person, waiting around for my father, who doesn’t even want her?

The want to make her feel small. But soon, that feeling gave way to sadness. I felt sorry for her. Sorry that every part of her life had been characterized by misery. Sorry that even now, she was suffering. Her eyes were unfocused. She was lost in her thoughts and had no idea how awful she was making me feel. But I knew where she was, and what she was remembering. She was back in that little tin house, the hail clattering noisily against the walls. It was winter, and she was alone, her cries lost to the wind.

There are some things that you can never truly escape. Not really. Maybe that’s why, even now, she’s stuck in the past, long after everyone else has moved on.

But while his anger was a great and terrible thing, sending us scrambling for cover whenever it reared its ugly head,

and led her out into the backyard. It was small and overgrown with weeds, the yellow dandelion flowers swaying in the wind. Maybe it was beautiful because it was ours.

Her knee is digging into my back, but I’m lost in the crypt that contains our family’s memories.

I didn’t believe them. It was foolish to think there was a chance that I’d stay relevant in their lives. They had their own dreams, their own worries. I would only be another burden.

crawled into my bed, curling into a ball under my blanket. Maybe that’s when the thread of my life began unraveling. Maybe it was the moment I held the letter in my hand, my chest uncomfortably tight. The day my friends were leaving, I watched them go without them knowing, tears trickling down my face. I had a feeling of lightness, of weightlessness; the sensation of being stuck somewhere far behind.

And then three short weeks later, I listened to my father say that he was leaving us, too. In the end, everyone leaves.

I’ve always been jealous of the kids who have never had to deal with this crushing pressure. They have no idea how good they have it, how lucky they are. Often, I find myself wondering: What is it like to live freely, to live a life untethered, without having to be responsible for everyone around you?

She’s shy about her hands because they’re stained and rough from years of hard work at dry cleaner and grocery store. Every time I see them, I feel small. I feel like I am responsible for every unhappiness and injustice she has ever experienced.

It’s my mother. I’m in her room. She’s sleeping on her side, huddled over in the corner, even though the rest of the bed is empty. Perhaps it’s because she’s used to making herself small. Perhaps it’s because she’s spent a lifetime making herself inconspicuous for men like my father