Jiyoung did the dishes after lunch, took a coffee break and went to the market with her mother-in-law to shop for Chuseok food. They spent the afternoon boiling the ox bone, marinating ribs, prepping and blanching the vegetables to season some and freeze the rest for later, washing and preparing seafood for the next day’s pancakes and fritters, making, eating, and clearing dinner.
The next day, Jiyoung and Daehyun’s mother flipped pancakes, fried fritters, stewed ribs, and sculpted rice cakes. The family ate freshly made holiday dishes and enjoyed themselves. Their daughter, Jiwon, felt right at home in the arms and laps of her grandparents, who showered the affectionate child with love.
The day after that was Chuseok. Daehyun’s older cousin was in charge of the ancestral rites, so Daehyun’s family didn’t have much to do on the day itself. Everyone slept in, had a simple breakfast of food made the day before, finished the dishes, and Suhyun, Daehyun’s younger sister, arrived with her family. Two years younger than Daehyun and a year older than Jiyoung, Suhyun lived in Busan with her husband and two sons, and her in-laws lived in Busan as well. Her father-in-law being the eldest of his male siblings, Suhyun was under a great deal of pressure during the holidays to make food for the ancestral rites and wait on the guests. Suhyun passed out as soon as she arrived. Jiyoung and Daehyun’s mother made soup from the ox-bone broth, cooked a fresh batch of rice, grilled fish, and seasoned vegetables for lunch.
After lunch was cleared, Suhyun brought out a big bag of gifts for Jiwon: dresses of all colors, a tutu, hair slides, lace socks, and so on. Suhyun put slides in Jiwon’s hair and socks on her feet, admiring the baby girl. I wish I had a daughter. Daughters are the best. In the meantime, Jiyoung brought out plates of apple and pear slices, but everyone was so full from lunch they barely touched them. When she brought out rice cakes, Suhyun took a piece.
“Mom, did you make this at home?”
“Of course I did.”
“Mom, how many times do I have to tell you? Don’t make food at home! I was going to mention this before, but don’t make ox-bone broth, either. Buy the pancakes at the market, and get the rice cakes from the shop. Why do you make so much food when we don’t even hold ancestral rites here? You’re too old for this, and it’s hard on Jiyoung.”
Disappointment flashed across the mother’s face. “It isn’t work when you’re feeding your own family. The point of the holidays is to get together, make and eat food together.” She turned to Jiyoung and put her on the spot: “Was it too much for you?”
At this, Jiyoung’s expression softened, her cheeks flushed into a gentle pink, and a warm smile emerged in her eyes. Daehyun was nervous. Jiyoung responded before he could change the subject or get her out of there. “Oh, Mrs. Jung. To tell you the truth, my poor Jiyoung gets sick from exhaustion every holiday!”
Time stood still in the room. It was as if they suddenly found themselves sitting atop a great iceberg. Suhyun finally broke the silence by letting out a long, frosty sigh that dissolved in the air.
“Ji, Jiwon needs a diaper change, no?”
Daehyun belatedly grabbed Jiyoung by the hand, but she swatted him off.
“Jung seoba-ahng! You’re to blame, too! You spend all your holidays in Busan and drop by our place just for a quick bite. This year, try to come earlier,” she said, winking her right eye.
Right at that moment, Suhyun’s six-year-old son fell off the sofa while playing with his little brother. He began to howl in pain, but no one had the mind to tend to him. He took a look at the adults sitting there, mouths agape, and stopped crying on his own.
“What is this nonsense?” Daehyun’s father thundered. “Is this how you behave in front of your elders? Daehyun, Suhyun and everyone else in our family only get together a few times a year. Is this really something to complain about—spending time with family?”
“Father, that’s not what she’s saying,” Daehyun tried to explain, but he didn’t know how to start.
“Mr. Jung, with all due respect, I must say my piece,” Jiyoung said in a cool tone, pushing Daehyun aside. “As you know, the holidays are a time for families to gather. But they’re not just for your family. They’re for my family, too. Everyone’s so busy nowadays and it’s hard for my children to get together, too, if not for the holidays. You should at least let our daughter come home when your daughter comes to visit you.”
In the end, Daehyun had to cup his hand over Jiyoung’s mouth and drag her out.
“She’s not well, Father. You’ve got to believe me, Mom, Father. Suhyun, too. She hasn’t been well lately. I’ll explain everything later.”
Daehyun got his wife and daughter in the car so fast that they didn’t even have time to button their coats. Once in the car himself, Daehyun pressed his head against the steering wheel, overwhelmed. Meanwhile, Jiyoung sang to their daughter as if nothing had happened. His parents didn’t even come out to say goodbye. Instead, Suhyun appeared carrying her brother’s bags and put them in the trunk.
“Jiyoung’s right,” said Suhyun. “We’ve been inconsiderate. Don’t fight or argue about it. Don’t get mad. Just say that you’re grateful and you’re sorry. Got it?”
“I’m off now. Talk to Father for me.”
Daehyun wasn’t angry—he was baffled, sad, and scared.
Daehyun visited the psychiatrist alone to discuss Jiyoung’s symptoms and treatment options. He told his wife, who didn’t seem to be aware of her condition, that he had booked a therapy session for her since she hadn’t been sleeping well and seemed stressed. Jiyoung thanked him, saying that she had indeed been feeling blue and enervated, and that she suspected maternity blues.
CHILDHOOD, 1982–1994
Kim Jiyoung was born on April 1, 1982, at an obstetrics clinic in Seoul. She measured 50 centimeters and weighed 2.9 kilograms. At the time of her birth, her father was a civil servant and her mother a housewife. Jiyoung’s elder sister had been born two years earlier, and a brother was born five years later. In a roughly 35-square-meter house with two bedrooms, one dining and living room, and one bathroom, Jiyoung lived with her grandmother, parents, and two siblings.
Jiyoung’s earliest childhood memory is of sneaking her brother’s formula. She must have been six or seven then. It was just formula, but it was so tasty she would sit by her mother when she was making it for her brother, lick her finger, and pick up the little bits that spilled on the floor. Her mother would sometimes lean Jiyoung’s head back, tell her to open wide, and pour a spoonful of that rich, sweet, nutty powder in her mouth. The formula would mix with her saliva, melt into a sticky mass, then turn soft as caramel, before sliding down the back of her throat and leaving a strange feeling in her mouth that wasn’t quite dry or bitter.
Koh Boonsoon, Jiyoung’s grandmother who lived with them, detested the very idea of Jiyoung eating her brother’s formula. If her grandmother ever caught her getting a spoonful of it, she would smack her on the back so hard powder exploded from her mouth and nose. Kim Eunyoung, Jiyoung’s big sister, never ate formula after the one time she was admonished by their grandmother.
“You don’t like formula?”