I miss our homeland very much. This may not seem obvious because I do not keep in touch with my relatives. It is difficult for me to contact these aunts and cousins because every time I pick up the phone, it is like reopening an old wound. There is so much envy and resentment, on both sides. They are always waiting for news of misfortune so they can proclaim me a fool for living in America, a place they believe we will always be treated as second-class citizens. Remember how happy my aunts were to hear about the LA riots? They rejoiced at any news of Koreans being attacked by real Americans. I am often convinced that empathy does not exist in Asia. What we have there is a Confucian culture of sadism, competition and materialism. It is how dictators and despots keep people subservient. Consumerism does the rest. America makes me grateful and hopeful.

Finally, I would like to express to you my growing sentimental attachment to our life. Although I began with deep ambivalence, I now love our old house on Santa Claus Lane. I feel happy and contented here. I can see us growing old together under this roof.

Yours faithfully, always,

Beverly

Kate’s initial reaction was that her student had embellished the letter in translation, adding eloquent, sentimental touches. But that seemed unlikely—Cora was one of the most boringly honest people she’d known.

“Well, we have to take this over to the girls, don’t you think?” said Mary-Sue, putting the baby down on the sofa.

“I’m not so sure. It could really freak them out.”

“Freak them out why? To learn that their mother was a human being with thoughts and feelings?”

Kate held her tongue. “There’s no rush. I mean, the mother’s already dead.”

“That’s a fine thing to say.”

“What I meant was, I don’t see what good can come of this. It’s none of our business.” Kate pocketed the original letter so her mother couldn’t do anything hasty.

“You’re exhausted. Go to bed. To be discussed. Shoo.”

Kate conceded, and shambled up the stairs, taking one last look at the domestic tableau—Grandma and the Blob illuminated by some TV cop procedural. Nobody was going anywhere.

Mary-Sue glanced at the dining table. Kate had taken Mrs. Park’s letter but the English translation was still there, pinned under her water glass. She wedged her sleeping granddaughter between two pillows and made sure there was no way she’d roll off the sofa. Then she pulled on a woolen top and her clogs.