My mother doesn’t say I love you.

Obviously there’s cutting up fruit (I think every Asian kid knows this). 

My mom brings it to me when I’m supposed to be studying,

but I’m actually on my phone,

because for some reason the stars always align 

while checking a notification

because the moment I’m looking at the screen,

the door swings open with my mom standing there

holding a plate of cut and peeled honeycrisp apples. 

She gives me a disapproving look

but gives me the plate of apples anyway.

I finish all the slices every time.

She knows I like them because sometimes I tell her,

but even when I don’t, 

she grabs her Costco membership,

drives on the 210 freeway,

and buys two more bags—three if they’re on sale—

of the shiniest, firmest, honeycrisp apples she can find.

She never sends my dad to buy the fruit,

because my dad would buy four bags—five if they’re on sale— 

and that, says my mom, is a waste of money. 

Some days I have to wash the dishes.

I usually wash them in between my study sessions.

But sometimes I forget.

So while I’m flying down the stairs with an AirPod still in,

and I’m panting in the kitchen,

my mom’s already cleaning plates.

She gives me a look over her shoulder

then continues to scrub 

while blasting a Korean podcast on full volume

on the iPad, its case about to break.

A new one, says my mom, is a waste of money.  

After my mom finishes blasting her podcast, 

my dad sings Korean ballads, 

Korean Christian folk music,

practicing for his church choir on Sundays

with the piano that I used to practice with

in the room without doors

so sound spreads everywhere.

It can be annoyingly loud sometimes,

and he knows it from my mom.

At least he stops before 9 p.m.

so I can study quietly,

or on a good day, go to bed. 

But I forgive my dad for the noise.

When my mom and I fight,

he’s the one that I’ll let into my room

while both of us giggle like little girls,

gossiping about how mom scares us

with her signature dirty look.

We immediately go quiet 

when we hear her footsteps,

barely audible through her foam slippers. 

It’s Valentine’s Day in a week, I said. 

(We were driving to HMart.)

What? Mom said. (She paused 사랑은 봄비처럼… 

이별은 겨울비처럼 by Lim Hyun Jung,

the song she’s listened to since college

in her hometown, Suncheon.)

It’s Valentine’s Day in a week, I said.

Can we do something?

Can we buy some chocolate?

We have chocolate at home, my mom said.

But I want the other kind.

The ones with toasty nougat inside

or the raspberry jelly

or the pink white chocolate

shaped like hearts. 

HMart doesn’t have that, she said. 

I can just cut you fruit at home.