Lee Jonghyung isn’t smiling in his photo either. By itself, the photo doesn’t tell much of a story. The background is plain. He’s wearing a collared shirt with the top button undone. It’s not quite DMV quality but it’s not much better. There’s a grainy texture to the portrait, as if someone took a smaller picture and enlarged it. Maybe that’s why I don’t recognize him. He has a thin face and even thinner lips. I touch my own fat lower lip. I wonder where you got that. Not from your father. His eyebrows need grooming. They’re dark and unruly. It gives him a slightly sinister expression.

His hair is dark, his eyes brown. That’s as much as I see of myself in him. Is our DNA match really 98.2 percent? Shouldn’t I see something of myself in this picture? Shouldn’t it be like an actual damn mirror? I want to pick it up and run to the bathroom so I can do a side-by-side comparison. I want to turn to the people in the room and ask them to point out the similarities.

I stare at the image for a long time, cataloging a mole on the right side of his neck and a scar near the left earlobe. I press my hands against my cheekbones, pulling the skin tight, and then drag a hand down my chin, trying to feel a connection, but there’s nothing. No flare of recognition. No immediate sense of belonging. I rub my eyes and look again. Still nothing.

Disappointment leaves a lump in my throat. I get to my feet, bow twice, and then straighten. I don’t know what to do now. I thread my fingers together and bow again. I might’ve kept bowing had Boyoung not come over to take my hand and escort me from the room. She leads me into a large common area where small wooden tables about knee-high are surrounded by black-clad mourners. Boyoung finds an empty table in the corner and folds herself onto a mat. Silently, I follow suit.

A server comes by and leaves a small collection of dishes—soup, some sides, rice. Boyoung makes a request and the hanbok-wearing waitress returns with a green bottle. “Soju,” Boyoung explains. “It’s how you get through one of these.” She twists off the cap and pours the clear liquid into a small glass in front of me.

“I’m sorry,” I say. Of all the things I imagined experiencing here in Korea, attending the funeral of my father wasn’t one of them.

Boyoung tips her head. “For what?”

“This can’t be any fun for you.”

“Fun? No. Not fun, but not fun for you, either.”

“No. Definitely not.”

“Drink. It will make you feel better.” Boyoung pours herself a glass.

“What is this place?” I ask.

“Our funerals are all held in these places except if you’re very, very wealthy, and then you don’t go to this jang-rae-shik-jang, but somewhere private. For everyone else”—she shrugs—“this is it. Your father’s landlady and his friend have already cared for the body. Tomorrow, they have prepared for your father to go to the crematorium, unless you want to make other arrangements.”