MY MOTHER looked on while the shop assistant had me try on various outfits. We agreed on one in red and yellow, the colors of youth. A jacket with balloon sleeves and a silk skirt that sat underneath my breasts and covered me all the way down to my feet. I looked obese.

As we came out of the shop, my mother turned to the window display and pointed to a pink blouse with gold embroidery.

“What do you think of that for me?” she asked.

I laughed. She pursed her lips and looked down. I tried to put things right by saying I wasn’t laughing at her, she should try it on, she hadn’t bought herself anything new in ages. She adjusted her bag on her shoulder and said it wasn’t her style anyway.

I hardly ever saw my mother without her waterproof work overalls. She had on a pair of velour trousers that day, with sensible shoes, her hair tied back with a red bandana that clashed with her lipstick. She was holding her hand to her diaphragm as she walked, her breathing labored. I gave her a worried look, she said it was nothing, just a twinge. Probably the humidity. I told her she should make an appointment to see the doctor.

“Stop fussing. Come on. Let’s eat somewhere. For once I have a chance to spend some time with you.”

I followed reluctantly.

We stopped at a stall near the entrance to the port and she ordered a vegetable and seafood pancake with some local makgeolli rice wine for us. When the food arrived, I tried to work out how much I’d be eating, weighing up the size of each mouthful.

“Good choice of colors,” my mother was saying. “You can wear the dress again for your wedding. You’ll need to watch your figure so you can still fit into it.”

I started to eat, chewing faster and faster, swirling the makgeolli in my bowl with the tips of my chopsticks. Gulping down long drafts. The dense whiteness of the alcohol coating my throat as it slipped down toward my stomach. My mother was talking about the fish market, about the catch coming in late. She needed fugu for the Seollal meal in a week’s time and there was nothing but octopus available. I’d stopped listening, I was eating, drinking. I’d lost all control.

My mother was the only fishmonger in Sokcho with a licence to prepare blowfish. Their organs contain lethal toxins but with the right skills, you could use the translucent flesh to create real works of art. My mother served it whenever she wanted to dazzle her guests.

I coughed. Makgeolli spilled onto my coat. Still talking, my mother dabbed at my coat with the paper napkin she’d used to wipe the grease from her mouth. The patch on my coat began to smell of sour milk. My mother topped up my bowl, smiling happily. I felt sick. I carried on eating and drinking, stuffing myself. It was always the same when I was with her, I couldn’t stop myself. She ordered another pancake.