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.

“No one has ever done for me what she has. Michelle-ah, she even wipes my ass.” I want to wipe your ass, I wanted to say, realizing it was ridiculous.

“I know you wish it was me. I wish it was me too.” I put my hand on his back. “No,” I said softly, though in my ugliest heart I did.

I was still sanctimoniously belittling the two roles she was ultimately most proud of, unable to accept that the same degree of fulfillment may await those who wish to nurture and love as those who seek to earn and create.