Love Love by Sung J. Woo

kidney, your kidney,” his father said. “You young, you need two. I am old man. I get old man kidney, dead man kidney.”
    Kevin had to say it, just blurt it out.
    â€œWho is my real father? Jin-cha ah-pa ?”
    Kevin had looked up the words in his Korean dictionary, to make sure he was being clear. A number of emotions vied for space on his father’s face: surprise, dismay, disgrace, rage. But the one that won out in the end was nothing at all.
    â€œMe,” his father said. “ Jin-cha .”
    â€œDad,” he said. “Come on.”
    â€œI grow you,” he said quietly. “I grow you, I your father.”
    â€œDinner!” Soo said, startling both of the men. “Sorry, sorry. Dinner.”
    To say Soo had gone all out was an understatement of an understatement. Kevin felt as if he’d stepped into a restaurant; little bowls of colorful Korean hors d’oeuvres (kimchi red, spinach green, fish cake beige) surrounded a trio of main dishes: a serious stack of scallion-oyster pancakes, a heaping pile of beef short ribs, and a still-bubbling red miso tofu soup in a stone bowl.
    â€œDig in!” Soo said.
    Kevin did as he was told, using his chopsticks to pick up a few strips of soy-marinated eggplant, and although he wanted to continue to question his father, the food was a welcome distraction. He didn’t think he was hungry, but once he started eating, he couldn’t stop.Everything was so delectable, even stuff he usually didn’t care for, like the dried anchovies, which were lightly sautéed in sesame oil and crunchy and salty like tiny slivers of potato chips. With a dab of rice, the combination was heaven.
    â€œ Mah-shee-suh-yo ,” he told Soo, a Korean phrase he knew by heart: It’s delicious. He’d said it often to his own mother, and she’d reply to his Korean with her own, “ Gahm-sah-hahm-nee-dah ,” thank you.
    â€œMore, more!” Soo said, spearing the longest short rib with her chopsticks and dropping it on his plate.
    Kevin glanced at his father, on the opposite side of the dining table, who sat in front of a kid-size rice bowl. Before he got sick, his father would take enormous, mouth-filling bites, a messy diner who took to piling small stacks of devoured ribs around his plate.
    His father said something in Korean to Soo, and a rapid-fire exchange took place. Kevin caught the words jin-cha ah-pa, but that was all, and in the end, Soo looked at Kevin with understanding eyes. “ Ah-eeh-goo ,” she said, another familiar Korean phrase: Too bad. And there was no surprise whatsoever in her demeanor, meaning she’d already known about this.
    Kevin put his chopsticks down.
    â€œI want his name,” he said.
    His father ignored him.
    Kevin slammed his fist against the table, and the little dishes rattled like discordant chimes. Soo drew in her breath.
    â€œSorry,” he told her. “I’m sorry.” But he wasn’t, the harshness in his voice betraying his words. Even when Alice left, there had been no screaming, just quiet melancholy. In his youth, Kevin had a terrible temper and would gladly display it, especially on the tennis court, carrying three racquets with him to every match because there was a good chance that he would break at least one against the hard court. He would eventually learn to control his anger and channel it to his game, but this was no game.
    Soo uttered another few words in Korean, and now it was his father’s turn to slam his fist down on the table. But Soo, expecting this one, wasn’t fazed, and she rose.
    â€œ Ahn-juh !” his father yelled, commanding her to sit, but she was already gone.
    For a moment their eyes met, and Kevin realized anger was more than just an emotion. It was also an unfortunate heirloom, a darknesspassed down from parent to child, and Kevin flashed back to those nights when his father returned from his job as a railway mechanic, his