For as long as I have known my mother, I have never really known my mother. First, there was the language barrier. Not the English–Korean language barrier, but a far more complicated one.

Dear ,

The first time Mommy thought you could ever be something, she slammed her fists against her tummy. That was the banging on your roof. Why the stars fell from the sky.

I once had a mind that told me to do It. That told me I’d be better off…not here. I was younger then, just a teenager, and I heard these voices. They all sounded like me. They were all talking at once, in voices that all sounded so much like the one that comes out of my mouth.

Before I knew the thickness and beauty of my skin, I tried to rub it off. Umma taught me how to do this early, when I was shameless enough to get naked in front of her. She’d start the bath, periodically cupping the running water to check its temperature, and I’d brace myself for the imminent torture that’d follow.

In my very first memory, I am tucked underneath a pink and white comforter, hot and itching from head to toe because of the low thread count and a new feeling in my stomach. It’s not poo-poo, I don’t know what it is, and I can’t ask Umma for rubs. She’s elsewhere...