Crying in H Mart

by Michelle Zauner

We sit here in silence, eating our lunch. But I know we are all here for the same reason. We’re all searching for a piece of home, or a piece of ourselves.

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.

White people were always going to the doctor. But when I got hurt, my mom was livid, as if I had maliciously damaged her property.

She believed food should be enjoyed and that it was more of a waste to expand your stomach than to keep eating when you were full. Her only rule was that you had to try everything once.

didn’t know then the type of effort it can take to simply move.

From day one, I’m told, nothing about me was easy.

“I had an abortion after you because you were such a terrible child!”

There it was. It was almost comical how she could have withheld a secret so impressive my entire life, only to hurl it at such a moment.

Unni is how Korean women refer to their older sisters and close women friends who are older.

But every moment of wonder was quickly followed by a halting sock to the stomach, a constant reminder of why we were there.