He doesn’t leave, but neither does he say anything, and I don’t know if that makes me happy or madder. “Don’t you have any advice?” I say sarcastically and regret it immediately. He’s not at fault, but he’s here and I’m hurting.

“I don’t know that I’m the right person to give you anything—even comfort. But I’m here if you need me.”

I drop my head to press against the backs of my hands. His response is so classic Yujun—kind and understanding. I wish he was anyone’s son but hers.

“My eo—someone told me that my worst trait is talking too much.”

He was going to say his mother—our mother, I mentally correct. Head still down, I say, “I thought listening was your best skill.”

“That was a learned trait. I wasn’t always good at it. I guess once I stopped stuttering I wanted to prove how good a talker I was.”

He’d stopped stuttering because of Wansu. He never refers to his father. It’s always his mother. She was the one who told him listening was his best trait. She helped him to stop stuttering. She’s why he left a job in the US to return to Seoul.

“You love Wansu, don’t you?”

“Yes.” His response is a bare whisper, as if he’s concerned I’ll run off if he says it too loud.

“I don’t understand how she can be so good to you and have never once tried to find me. She’s out here mothering you and Boyou—Bomi. Her countless other rescues, but why not me?” I sound pitiful and I hate it.

Yujun practices not talking, and during his silence I try to gather my composure. I’m not mad at him. I’m mad at the world.

“A Korean’s life is centered around food. We don’t all believe in the same god or the same economic policies or the same dreams of the future, but we all believe that food can heal.” There’s a crinkling sound and then a small fish-shaped pastry appears in front of me. “It’s bungeo samanco. There’s cream inside the wafer. Someday, you’ll have to have bungeo ppang. That’s kind of like a pancake with ice cream inside, but for now, this will do.”

Someday? He still talks like there’s a future between us. My stomach squeezes, reminding me that I haven’t eaten much other than some fish cakes that Jules and I bought from a street vendor when we were shopping for my gifts.

“When I planned this dinner, I thought it would be the four of us getting drunk together and maybe ending the night singing karaoke. I wanted to have an ordinary night of fun. Not this.” I crunch down into the wafer. It’s delicious, as is everything I’ve eaten here. Why Korean food is so good, I will never know.

“The notecards are very nice.” He pulls a box out of his pants pocket. “They’re very pretty. Yeppuh.”

I cock my head to see my gift in Yujun’s palm. Jules took me to a small but elegant craft store filled with delicately carved wood sculptures that had shockingly high prices but also a collection of smaller goods like the hand-painted notecards I bought for Yujun. Each card features a different part of Seoul. I recognized the river and Namsan Mountain but not the others. For Boyoung, I bought a key chain with an enameled cherry blossom and her initials KBY, which is useless now because that’s not even her name.