Crying in H Mart

by Michelle Zauner

I remember these things clearly because that was how my mother loved you, not through white lies and constant verbal affirmation, but in subtle observations of what brought you joy, pocketed away to make you feel comforted and cared for without even realizing it.

love was an action, an instinct, a response roused by unplanned moments and small gestures, an inconvenience in someone else’s favor.