“What is it?” She called from the kitchen.
“How should I know?”
I walked through the hallway to the kitchen.
“I’ve not got x-ray eyes.” I put the parcel down on the kitchen island where Mum sat, finishing up her breakfast.
She wiped her hands on a tea towel and pulled the sealed box towards her, frowning down at the label, before shrugging.
“Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve forgotten what you’ve ordered, eh love?” Dad chimed in from across the room.
Mum didn’t dignify that with a response as she reached for a pair of scissors.
“Here, let me do that, Mum.” I reached over her and grabbed the scissors, pulling the box towards me.
“I am capable of doing somethings, Kaiya Thompson,” she grumbled.
Maybe she was, she was less stiff every day, but I still saw the way she winced when her arms extended.
I cut through the tape on the box and was just pulling the cardboard flaps aside when Mum slid the box back across the counter.
“Ah, ah, ah,” she scolded. “Don’t be nosy.”
I raised my hands in the air, and watched as she reached into the box. The expression on her face morphed from interest to confusion as she rummaged through the contents. She pulled out a metal container with Hangul written on it. Mum frowned.
“What’s this?” She held it out to me, as though my months in Korea made me the resident expert. But before I could take it from her, she pulled it back.
“Oh, there’s a card.”
She put the metal container down on the counter, and pulled a white card from the box. Turning it over, I could see the handwriting on one side.
“Mrs Thompson,” Mum began. “Someone once told me this helps with nausea. I hope you don’t need it, but if you do, I hopeit helps.” Mum finished reading, and put the card down, turning to me with a strange, soft sort of expression.
“Who’s it from?” I asked, even though I knew.
Mum slid the card over to me, where I could clearly see his name etched at the bottom of the card. Baek Jihoon.
My heart seemed to swell in my chest.
“He’s a good’un, your young man.” Dad said, ruffling my hair as he came over to peer into the box.
Hours later, I snuggled up in bed, and held my phone tightly. I stared, wishing I was looking into his eyes as he lay next to me, instead of through a screen.
“You didn’t need to do that,” I said quietly, conscious of the late hour and my parents sleeping.
“Was it too much?” he asked, and from the way he frowned, I could tell he was genuinely worried.
“No! She loved it!”
In addition to the container of ginseng tea, Jihoon had included a thick pair of merino wool socks and some luxury hand lotion.
“The website I read said chemotherapy patients often get cold,” Jihoon continued, visibly fretting, “but I’m worried that it’s weird that I got your eomma socks.”
I held a hand over my mouth, trying to stifle my giggle.
“It was perfect, Joon. You’re perfect,” I said softly, enjoying the way his whole face relaxed as he grinned that lopsided smile.
“I’m glad you think so, even if it’s not true.”
