The Duty of Daughters and Other Raw Things

The creature snatches a pair of chopsticks, and glares at his oppressor. From his throat escapes a low and feral snarl.

"No, sir!" A woman rushes over as the beast grabs a piece of barely cooked chicken off the tabletop grill. Mouth half open, my father stares at the waitress.

She smiles a friendly smile—something I couldn't produce while trying to stop the eighty-four year old diabetic from getting food poisoning. After Dad's third attempt to eat a meal that wasn't ready yet, I was desperate for a solution. I had taken his chopsticks away from him and placed them neatly on a paper napkin to my side.

"Please wait three more minutes, ok?" The restaurant employee gestures the number three with her fingers.

Heads turn in the restaurant, and I flush with embarrassment. Even my father notices the inquiring eyes. Something in his mind clicks. He returns the pale poultry to the grill, freshly aware that fighting will only bring humiliation.

Across the table, my mother fiddles with her hands. "Wasn't Nami Island nice?" She begs. Her words disappear into the smoke rising above the table.

I look towards my father, my heart blackening with rot. Sitting with my emotions and jetlag, I regret having come to Korea. For three minutes, we are quiet.

It is the first day of what will be our last family trip, ever. Dementia has made my father insistent on seeing his younger brother, though we were not invited and aren't sure we'll be welcomed. For three years, Mom wielded Covid-19 as a weapon against Dad's demands to travel to Korea. But her strategy weakened with every passing year.

"We need to take your dad to Korea." Mom said at a Carl's Jr., just weeks after I broke the news of my divorce. "When?" I asked. "October is good." Over those words, on that July afternoon, the deal was done. Their daughter, once too busy with unconventional ambitions and bad relationships, would take them to their homeland.

Upon our arrival, Mom is busy pointing out the changes—the hills, once stripped of anything that could be eaten or burned, are now lush and green. Thriving with pop culture, trendy restaurants, and Costcos, Korea is no longer the impoverished country my parents remember. My parents weren't even born in South Korea, yet it is as close to home as they will ever get.

As we make our way from Seoul to Chuncheon, Sokcho, Busan, and back to Seoul again, my mother and I reconnect over walks and steaming bowls of traditional soup. Dad was unusually coherent the day of the raw chicken incident, but sleeps through the majority of our trip. Mom says she wishes he could explore with us, but we both know things are easier when he isn't here.

We travel for fifteen days and bicker about everything under the sun, but Mom never brings up the divorce that made this trip possible. I don't blame her for not wanting to talk about it. My decision is shameful. Unfathomable. Marriage, after all, is a lifelong duty.

Back in California, my father has no recollection of our trip. "Did my brother treat me with respect?" He asks, curious as I scroll through photos of their time together.

"Yes." I answer. "We all did."

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Dear friends,

I’ve finally committed to writing a book! It will be my first, and likely a collection of memoirs. So I’ll be publishing more short pieces like this to serve as notes to myself. I am considering offering a paid option on Substack for those of you who are interested in supporting the book.

Let me know what you think. And thank you all for being here.

Leslie S. Kim