“He can sleep in his own bed tomorrow. He’ll wake up if you move him now.”
Jin is right, but Kyung doesn’t know how he can stand it. When Ethan was younger and prone to nightmares, he often crawled into the space between him and Gillian, who continued to sleep through the night. But Kyung could never get comfortable. He’d feel his arm tingling under the weight of Ethan’s head, and then a deadness as his blood began to slow. It usually took him hours to drift off again, and even then, he slept lightly, frightened that he’d crush the boy simply by turning the wrong way.
“How’s your mother?” Jin asks.
The question irritates him, not because it’s meant to change the subject, but because his father shouldn’t have to ask.
“Why don’t you”—he lowers his voice again as Ethan stirs in his sleep—“why don’t you try talking to her?”
“I have.”
Kyung is about to tell him to try harder, but he remembers the cruel flick of Mae’s wrist as she let go of his hand during the prayer. It’s not Jin’s fault that she’s mad at him.
“She’s all right, I guess.” No sooner has he said it than Kyung quickly reconsiders. “I mean, not really. Now that she’s done with the house—I’m not sure. I don’t know what she’ll do next.”
“Whatever she wants.”
“What does that mean?”
“Let her do whatever she wants, whatever she needs to do.”
This has never been the dynamic of his parents’ marriage. Everything was always about making Jin happy, or at the very least, not making him unhappy. Sleep, food, silence, absence—whatever he wanted, Mae tried to give it to him. And she always managed to get it wrong. Years ago, she had to throw a dinner party together with less than an hour’s notice. A visiting professor had come to campus for a lecture and Jin invited him and his colleagues to the house afterward. Kyung had never seen his mother run so much or so fast in his entire life, cooking and cleaning and making herself presentable, sometimes all at once. When the guests finally arrived, he still remembers the expression on her face when one of them asked for a glass of white wine. She didn’t have any—only red. The woman didn’t seem to mind, but from then on, his mother looked different to him. Uneasy. It didn’t matter how many compliments she received about the house or the dinner or her hospitality. The wine was the only thing she could think about. The irony of it was, when the guests left and Jin flew into his usual rage, he said he was hitting her because she’d looked so unhappy all night.
“Don’t,” Jin says.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t raise your voice.”
Kyung doesn’t understand at first, but he realizes he’s been frowning. He softens a bit, aware that his son’s presence provides a barrier of safety he’s never felt around his father. Jin doesn’t want to scare the boy again.
“Why did you two even get married in the first place?”
“What kind of question is that? You shouldn’t ask—”
“But I’m asking.”
The mirror of his father’s face startles him. Kyung feels like he’s seeing himself aged by thirty years. The eyes are droopier, the skin redder and more wrinkled, but the outline is still the same.
“We weren’t even supposed to. I wanted to marry her cousin.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“Because she was poor.”
“But your family was poor too.”
“My parents thought I could do better. I was almost finished with my degree—that was a big deal back then.” Jin scowls, but now that he’s started, he can’t seem to stop. “If I couldn’t marry a rich girl, they said, I should at least marry someone middle class. Your mother’s parents—they owned a store. Not a big one, but respectable. They offered mine a dowry.”
“You mean like money?”
“Yes, money.”
Somehow, it seems only fitting that what brought his parents together, what’s kept them together all these years is the same thing that Kyung worries about every waking minute of his life. It’s like a disease they passed on through their bloodlines, mutated into a new form for his generation.
“I still don’t understand why you’re selling the house.”
“Because she likes to decorate. If we start somewhere new, it’ll keep her busy.”
“But busy isn’t the same thing as happy.”
“People your age,” Jin says, not making any effort to hide his disdain. “All you do is think about happiness. You think I was happy when I first came to this country? When I was trying to get tenure and no one said I could?”
“There’s nothing wrong with—”
“If you think too much, you won’t ever accomplish anything.”
Had the words been phrased differently—a little kinder, a little earlier in life—they could have formed the basis for something meaningful passed down from father to son. But said in this moment, they don’t resemble advice so much as judgment.