She opens the door and begins immediately: “Yeoul, welcome. So good to see you. You’ve grown so much. So tall. I almost didn’t recognize you. How have you been?” The greetings roll out of her so naturally it sounds unnatural. She sounds like an old actress auditioning for the lines that she’s rehearsed a million times before. The dimples on her cheeks get deeper as she closes the door behind us. I can’t tell if she’s smiling or grimacing. Why didn’t I inherit those pretty dimples? At once I recognize this woman to be my mother. It’s not that there are obviously similar features we share. Her face looks like my face in twenty years, pale, slightly tense. I’ve never seen a pair of eyes that glow so much. She is wearing a long black skirt, a pair of slippers on her feet. Her hand holds a rice paddle. I recognize her blue rubber slippers to be from my dad’s factory. The backs of them are torn.

I finally bring myself to open my mouth. “Pastor Gang Jinae? Real name Gang Jongok. You are my mother, correct?”

“Must you talk like that?You must’ve done some research about me. Come over here, sit down.” On the table, there is a small sauce dish of chili soy paste, a few pieces of kimchi, some raw carrot, cucumber, daikon, and some greens. Is she an overly health-conscious vegetarian or something? She places a spoon, a pair of chopsticks, and a bowl of rice in front of me. I think I visibly frowned at the sight of the beans, barley, sorghum, and a few more grains mixed into the rice. I hate that stuff.

“You haven’t eaten yet, have you? Let us pray and eat. Father Almighty, thank you. Thank you for leading our beloved Yeoul here, allowing this miraculous reunion.” As she drones on with her lengthy prayer, I open my eyes to look at my mother. Her even forehead, her closed eyes, her trembling thick eyelashes. Her pale lips. Her neck, so thin it looks like it will break where it meets her white sweater. Her flat chest. Her bony hands, pressed together, fingers interlaced. Her short hair looks like she cuts it herself. The only furnishing in the house is a futon and a tiny dresser. There is a mirror about the size of a book on the wall. The room feels like it exists separate from the rest of the world. A few tiny pencils, worn down to small nubs. A red ballpoint pen. A Bible and a few books. A few notebooks. The room is so clean and humble that it looks like a prison cell. Is this what she left me for? So she could live like this?

“Not sure you’ll like what I have, but let’s eat.”

“Thank you for the meal.”