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

“Halmeoni, your favorite grandson is back,” he called, stripping off his jacket as he 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 his halmeoni made kimchi and other side dishes for the week.

Jihoon already smelled the pungent aroma of fermenting cabbage.

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

Jihoon 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. Jihoon plucked off one, red as blood, with his fingers. It tasted bitter and spicy, just the way he liked his kimchi.

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

“Jihoon-ah, one more delivery.”

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

“Again?” Halmeoni slapped his hand away when he 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 him on edge. “Who are they for?”

“Who else do we know who lives there?” Halmeoni clicked her tongue at him. Usually it would be enough to make him stand down, but he held his ground and crossed his 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 Jihoon stop arguing.

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

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

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

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

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

Living with Halmeoni had been like finally feeling the sun after a lifetime underground. She made sure he was clean and fed. Gave him toys and clothes. But when Jihoon’s mother asked for spending money, Halmeoni handed her an apron and told her to earn it.

When Jihoon was almost five, he was sitting in the kitchen during the dinner rush. He remembered the smell of jjigaesimmering on the stove, savory and salty, with just enough spice to sting his nostrils.

Halmeoni sang an old-fashioned trot song from the radio, and Jihoon followed along, butchering the lyrics. But his effort made Halmeoni laugh and it encouraged him to sing louder.

Their song joined the clatter of the kitchen and the shouts of voices in the dining room.

His mother came into the kitchen, her tray full of dirty dishes. Her hair escaped its rubber band to fall into her flushed face, sauce smeared on her sweaty cheek.

Jihoon thought she looked beautiful.

Overjoyed to see her, he jumped up and ran over.

She tripped as he clutched her knees, and the tray slipped from her hands to crash on the floor. A wayward shard of glass bounced up and cut Jihoon’s cheek.

“Jihoon-ah!” she screamed. “Why are you getting in the way? You shouldn’t be back here.” She’d grabbed him, spanking him in punishment. The pain of her palm on his bottom was numbed by his fear.

His tears fell in streams, stinging the cut on his cheek with its salt, but he didn’t make a sound. He’d learned in his short life how to cry silently or risk a harsher punishment.