I stood there, holding the birthday gifts I'd carefully picked out, feeling like an idiot.
Wherever.
I set them down on the side table near the entrance, next to a vase of fresh flowers that I knew my mother had probably arranged herself.
They looked pathetic next to the flowers.
Small. Cheap. Inadequate.
I took a breath and headed toward the kitchen.
The kitchen smelled incredible.
Garlic and sesame oil. Soy sauce and gochugaru. The rich, savory scent of marinated galbi sizzling on the stove. The sweet, earthy aroma of miyeok-guk simmering in a pot.
It was the same feast my mother made every year for my father's birthday.
Elaborate. Time-consuming. Perfect.
She was standing at the counter, julienning vegetables with the kind of aggressive precision that made me nervous. The knife hit the cutting board in rapid, rhythmic thwacks, each one sharp and final.
I washed my hands at the sink, dried them on the towel hanging nearby, and stood there awkwardly.
