Shelter by Jung Yun Page B

job” over and over again, elbowing Kyung in the ribs until he finally said it too. He finds himself doing this more often now—saying what he knows a good parent should—but he worries that it doesn’t come more naturally.
    â€œOkay, so what’s next?” she asks.
    He clears his throat so they’ll notice him.
    Gillian spins around, startled by the noise. “Oh. You’re home already,” she says cautiously. “You weren’t gone very long.”
    Kyung pours himself a cup of coffee. “I know.” He joins them on the floor, kicking off his shoes so he can sit cross-legged as they are, which seems to surprise her. He looks down at the half-assembled puzzle. It’s the same one Ethan always plays with, the fruit bowl.
    â€œSo was everything—okay over there?” Gillian asks.
    â€œWhat’s this?” Kyung offers Ethan another piece.
    â€œIt’s an apple.”
    â€œDo you like apples?”
    Ethan nods. “And bananas too.”
    â€œShow me which one’s the banana.”
    They go on like this for several minutes until all of the smiling pieces of fruit are in their proper places. Kyung can feel Gillian watching him the entire time, but she should be happy, he thinks. This is exactly the kind of thing she says he needs to do more often. Play more, discipline less.
    When Ethan finishes reciting the names of every fruit, he turns the puzzle tray over, and the wooden pieces fall out, clattering against the tile. “Again?” he asks hopefully.
    Children have a strange tolerance for repetition. Ethan has been playing with the same tool belt and puzzle since April. He’s been demanding the same bedtime story since May. He doesn’t lack for toys or books—Gillian’s made sure of that—but he acts like the others don’t exist. This is the pattern as Kyung has come to understand it: months of Ethan fixating on one thing until he moves on to something else, something equally mind numbing, and then the pattern begins again.
    â€œWhy don’t you go watch TV now?” Gillian says. “You can take the puzzle with you if you want.”
    Ethan picks up the apple and walks into the living room, where the piece is sure to go missing.
    â€œHe watches too much TV,” Kyung says.
    â€œIt’s fine every once in a while. We grew up with TV, and there’s nothing wrong with us.”
    Actually, Kyung grew up with tutors. Piano, French, swimming, golf. If he could afford it, Ethan would have tutors too.
    â€œSo what happened? Why are you home so early?”
    â€œShe’d already given her statement by the time I got there. Then she went to sleep, so I left.”
    â€œBut what about your dad?”
    â€œWhat about him?”
    â€œWell, how is he? Did he tell you what happened?”
    â€œWhy don’t you ask Connie or Tim?” His irritation spikes when he mentions his in-laws, who have no right knowing more than he does, no right at all. “I got to the hospital five minutes before visiting hours started, and they were already there with the cop from yesterday. And that reverend from the church—he brought half the congregation with him.”
    Gillian slides across the floor until she’s sitting behind him. “I’m sorry about my dad,” she says, kneading the knots in his shoulders. “I’m sure he meant well. He probably thinks he can help. And you know Tim—wherever one goes, the other follows.”
    She’s always making excuses for them, trying so hard to smooth things over. Connie irritates her from time to time, but she adores him like a daughter should, bouncing back from their disagreements as if they never happened.
    â€œI snapped at them a little. You know, for being there.”
    The kneading stops. “What exactly did you say?”
    â€œI told them to leave. Maybe I said get out.… I can’t remember.”
    â€œKyung! Why would