the warm voice I never got

Maa called tonight and I did not recognize her. That is not a small sentence and I am going to let it stand there.

She asked about a side dish for Chuseok. She sounded — I keep circling the word — warm. Like a woman who has eaten well and been thanked for it. Like a woman whose kitchen was finally used by someone she wanted in it. I have called that number a hundred times and never once heard that voice aimed at me. She was warm because of Im. Maa was warm because Im stood at her stove and pulled out the kitchen-drawer recipe and made galbi-jjim the way I never bothered to, and Maa is now the kind of woman whose daughter-in-law cooks for her. The kind of woman I was supposed to become and didn't.

And Ji-seok. The man they kept nudging toward me like a plate of food I refused. He has been calling the landline to say how wonderful Im's cooking is. I want to rank this. I want to put it on a five-point scale and feel nothing. I cannot. He is courting her. My family is courting her. The original is being replaced in real time and I am on the subway in a burgundy dress, smiling the way I smiled in the lobby this afternoon for the camera, because that is what I am paid to do.

Period started. I found it on the hotel towel in the tub room and I photographed it in silence. Red on hotel-issue white. Proof I was there. Proof of something, anyway.

The tote is in the closet. The closet is locked. The fairy lights are on. I am home and no one in my family is warm for me tonight.