But I look up when Ethan places a drumstick in my soup bowl. “You need it more than I do,” he says. I swallow a mouthful of chicken with a gulp. A warm cup of barley tea appears on the table when I pound on my chest. I clear my throat and drink some tea. Mostly, I’m trying to blink away the tears welling in my eyes. My mother always gave me one of her drumsticks when we ate samgaetang. Chicken leg is a love language all its own.
