Crying in H Mart

by Michelle Zauner

We were particular about everything: kimchi

had to be perfectly sour, samgyupsal perfectly crisped; stews had to be piping hot or they might as well have been inedible.

We chased our cravin...

Maybe he was stationed in Seoul for military service or taught English abroad.

We’re all searching for a piece of home, or a piece of ourselves.

Hers was tougher than tough love. It was brutal, industrial-strength. A sinewy love that never gave way to an inch of weakness. It was a love that saw what was best for you ten steps ahead, and didn’t care if it hurt like hell in the meantime. When I got hurt, she felt it so deeply, it was as though it were her own affliction.

with the zeal of a conspiracy theorist.

Living with my father and me must have felt like living with two oversized toddlers hell-bent on destroying her perfect world.

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.

Save your tears for when your mother dies.

I was a meerkat running in a pack of gazelles.