“No, don’t.” I sprung forward, taking her hand. “Please, don’t strain yourself. I didn’t want to stress you out first thing, I just had to let you know I was here—”
“Sarang.”
Direct and clear as a bell, Omma saw through the clothes I dug out of Sue’s wardrobe, and straight to me. Of course, she did. No mother would ever confuse their child with someone else. Not even their biological copy.
“Sarang, dear, is... that you?”
“It’s me.” I moved closer, the hand in hers trembling.
I replayed this moment over and over in my head almost every day for ten years. All the things I would say to her—scream at her. How many apologies I’d extract from her in exchange for my forgiveness. All the crow I’d shove down Sue’s throat as Omma finally saw through to who my sister was. I built the fantasy up so much in my head—
—and now I didn’t care about any of it.
She’s dying in a broken-down manor with no money, no friends, no husband, and no Sue. Omma took my life, and life took her daughter.
I’d say we’ve both suffered enough.
“You look well,” she whispered. Her eyes were barely open. She looked seconds away from drifting back to sleep. “Have you... been eating?”
I cracked a smile. “Yes, I have been eating. Turns out that’s a requirement for living.”
A soft chuckle reached my ears, blowing my eyes wide. My mother did not laugh easily. I’d seen her sit through countless romantic comedies and not summon so much as a twitch of the lips.
Emboldened, I scooted closer, laying my other hand over hers. “I’ve even been making japchae the way you like. I can’t believe I ever said Korean food was yucky. That’s why you can’t trust the culinary opinion of a kid who thinks boogers are a delicacy.”
Omma laughed out loud—or the closest thing to it. A rough, whispery sound coughed up her lungs—weak and soft, but still, a laugh.
“Oh, my silly girl, what do you mean you made japchae? You know you’re not allowed in the kitchen.”
My brows snapped together. “What?”
“It’s not nice to take credit for Mrs. Prado’s work.”
“Mrs. Prado?”
Mrs. Prado was the manor’s head chef when I was a kid, and going by the current state of the kitchen, she hadn’t been around for a long time.
“Promise me you’ll stay out of the kitchen and out of Mrs. Prado’s way.” Omma closed her eyes, giving up the battle with her heavy lids. “Say it, Sarang.”
“I promise,” I blurted—surprised even at myself for how quickly I fell into old patterns with her.
“Sarang?”
I jumped, snapping up as Reynard pushed into the room.
“Did she just call you sarang?”
I seized up—wide eyes darting left to right for somewhere to hide. “I— I— She— She—”
“That means love, doesn’t it? That’s so sweet.”
“Um... sweet?”
“I’ve never heard her call you, or anyone, by a pet name before.” He came in the rest of the way, carrying an empty water bottle and his lunch bag. “Although, to be fair, she could be saying all sorts of things in Korean that would zip right over my head.” He laughed. “That’s why I’ve started taking lessons.”
“Lessons?” I couldn’t seem to stop repeating him like a moronic parrot.
“Yes,” he sighed. “You know how rough it’s been. How confused she’s getting. More and more she’s going whole days where she doesn’t say anything, and if she does, it’s all in Korean. I figured that’s my cue to fire up the language-learning apps.”
