Legend [YEONBIN] ✓

nine ; yeonjun

I zipped through traffic on the small scooter. A flag on the back flew the name of Halmeoni’s restaurant.

The moped never hit over forty kilometers per hour and was always five seconds away from dying. A deathtrap on two tread-bare wheels. Really, I wondered why my halmeoni had such little regard for my personal well-being.

I prayed it wouldn’t break down as I veered around a large bus spitting out exhaust.

Here the neighborhood had given in to chain stores. Doors swished open to let customers out. Blaring pop songs followed them. I bopped along to the beat.

The scooter protested as I turned onto a steep hill, and despite my urging, it gave up five blocks from the restaurant. I debated leaving it in the middle of the street, but dutifully pushed the scooter along. My halmeoni wouldn’t be happy if I abandoned the piece of junk.

“Halmeoni, your favorite grandson is back,” I called, stripping off my jacket as I entered the restaurant. The scents of jjigaes still hung in the air, though the kitchen was closed for the rest of the day like it did every Monday evening while my halmeoni made kimchi and other side dishes for the week.

I already smelled the pungent aroma of fermenting cabbage.

“I’m up here,” she called from the front of the restaurant.

I found her surrounded by plastic tubs. She’d pushed the tables aside to make space for her work. Some of the tubs were filled with raw cabbage; others held leaves rubbed with bright red paste. I plucked off one, red as blood, with my fingers. It tasted bitter and spicy, just the way I liked my kimchi.

My halmeoni sat with her plastic-gloved hands deep in a tub of cabbage.

“Yeonjun-ah, one more delivery.”

“But we’re closed. And the scooter’s dead.” I took another bite of kimchi.

“Again?” Halmeoni slapped my hand away when I reached for a third piece. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll need to use the bus. Take those to Hanyang apartments.” She gestured to two containers, packaged and tied up neatly in pink satin cloth.

“Why?” Just the name of the apartment complex put me on edge. “Who are they for?”

“Who else do we know who lives there?” Halmeoni clicked her tongue at me. Usually it would be enough to make me stand down, but I held my ground and crossed my arms.

“Why would you be sending her anything?”

“Take them, and be polite,” Halmeoni said without looking up.

“Just because she’s your daughter doesn’t mean you have to take care of her. She has a husband for that.”

“Don’t speak that way about your mother,” Halmeoni said, this time with enough iron to make me stop arguing.

“She’s not my mother anymore,” I mumbled, but I hauled up the two containers. Outside, thick angry clouds gathered, matching my dark mood.

As I trudged toward the bus stop, I realized I’d forgotten his jacket. I glanced up the road and decided against returning for it. The heat of my anger was enough to ward off the chill in the air. I reached the main road as an approaching bus stopped with a huff of lung-clogging exhaust.

Dropping into a seat at the back, I balanced the containers precariously on my knees. Every time the bus bounced over a pothole, they jumped and slammed on my thighs, building my aggravation.

Glaring out the window, I tried to think of anything but the woman who’d left me. So of course she was exactly where my mind traveled.

I remembered two things from the first few years of my life: hearing my parents’ long screaming matches and knowing they didn’t love me. After each fight, my father turned to the bottle. My mother turned to her own bitterness. My early life was full of harsh words and quick slaps for anything from crying too loud to being too quiet. When I was four, my father was arrested. My mother immediately filed for divorce and moved them into the small apartment above Halmeoni’s restaurant.