Page 20 of Marked By Him

I just have to focus on making this next week enjoyable for her.

Just because my life is a hot mess doesn’t mean I shouldn’t show Mom a good time. She’s traveled across the world to see me, and I love and appreciate her so much.

For the next week, I’ll have to bury everything else and hope it doesn’t come up.

We keep things simple for the rest of the day.

Mom is jet-lagged the second we step through the door of my apartment. I help her unpack, clearing a drawer and space in my wardrobe for her. She’ll only be here a week, but I want my apartment to feel like home.

She showers and changes into soft cotton pajamas with her hair up in a scarf, then makes herself comfortable like I hoped she would.

We order takeout from a local Korean barbecue restaurant I thought she might like—tender pork belly, beef bulgogi, grilled kimchi, seasoned rice, and these little pickled radish discs that she loves and keeps popping into her mouth like candy.

We sit around the tiny table I have in my kitchenette, knees touching, plates cluttered, our laughter filling up the apartment.

We talk about the family, trading memories. We’re currently on Uncle Devon, her brother back home in Philly—the one who thinks he’s God’s gift to women.

“Remember how he used to strut around in that cheap polyester suit?” I say with a mouthful of rice. “The one with the wide lapels and shiny buttons?”

Mom nearly chokes on her beef bulgogi. “Lord don’t remind me! I used to beg him not to wear that out of the house. I told him he looked like a walking sofa cushion.

“It’s still not as bad as that awful cologne he used to bathe in.”

Her laugh blossoms, coming from deep in her belly. “Yes! Oh chile—what was that stuff called? He’d douse himself in it before going to the salon around the block and flirting with the ladies getting their hair and nails done.”

“He thought he was real fly,” I say, smirking. “A regular Mac Daddy.”

We lose track of our laughter as we eat ’til we can’t consume another bite.

After dinner, we curl up on the couch and I put onTrain to Busan, trying to introduce her to Korean cinema through one of the few movies I know will actually hold her attention. She watches with wide eyes and mutters prayers under her breath every time a zombie pops up on screen.

And, as usual, she has whole conversations with the characters.

“Now, why would you get on that train knowing something’s wrong?” she huffs, shaking her head. “Do you know how fast I would’ve been out of there? Could never be me!”

By the time the credits roll, she’s yawning and rolling her neck on her shoulders.

“Get some sleep, Mom,” I say softly. “You’ve had a long day.”

“You sure you don’t want the bed? This is your apartment, baby.”

“You’re my guest.Andmy mom. You get the bed. I’ll be fine on the couch.”

She hugs me tight, taking her time like she used to when I was a kid and she’d read me bedtime stories before lights-out. Her fingers gently stroke at my curls.

“Moni…”

I feel it coming before she says it.

“I know you loved him, baby,” she murmurs. “You were good together. But it’s been two years. My wish for you is that you honor Eli by moving on and finding happiness again.”

My stomach clenches. I pull away from her, unable to censor my irritation that she’d bring this up now. Right before bed.

“How many times do I have to tell you I don’t want to talk about that, Mom? Please don’t bring it up.”

She sighs and cups my cheek, pinching it lightly. “I don’t like to see my baby hurting. And Moni… that’s all I see in your eyes these days.”

They’re her parting words for the night. She pads into my bedroom and closes the door with a soft click that echoes much louder than it should.

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