In their family dynamic, it was more important to be kind than to be completely truthful, and in this particular instance, kindness translated into omitting some crucial facts about herself, despite them being inherently understood. Kristin’s parents were no fools, but tradition still weighed heavy on them, even though they had left Korea a very long time ago—or perhaps that was why they attached more importance to it, because of the connection to their motherland it still offered.
Either way, it was only tradition in spirit. They were always enlightened enough to not make any futile demands of Kristin, didn’t think their own wish to see their daughter marry a decent Korean man more important than their daughter’s happiness. So, in that, Kristin considered herself lucky also.
They had the obligatory miyeok guk and made polite conversation the way they always did. Kristin inquired about her parents’ jobs and they about hers. They feasted on half a bottle of Korean plum wine, even though Kristin had brought a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, if only for herself. But she always drank the beverage her mother served. She didn’t know why exactly, though she was sure that, subconsciously, it had something to do with the wish to comply, to obey. Which, come to think of it, sounded like something Sheryl would say. Kristin would never be able to keep Sheryl a secret if it felt as though she was going everywhere with her.
“I’ll get the birthday cake,” her father offered and disappeared into the kitchen. Kristin hadn’t received a gift-wrapped present. Instead, she knew that when she checked her savings account tomorrow, the same amount as every year would have been deposited into it. Her parents were practical people and had, long ago, forsaken the habit of finding a suitable gift for their daughter’s birthday. Kristin knew that, despite always making the effort of buying each one of them something small and inexpensive enough not to seem wasteful of money, she couldn’t give her parents a better gift than showing them a bank statement of the growing amount in her savings account.
To Kristin’s surprise, the cake was not the same old pavlova her mother made from scratch every year. This year, because it was a special birthday, she’d bought a chocolate mirror cake with an outside layer so shiny, Kristin could make out her own reflection in it. What would she see if she looked into an actual mirror right now, as she celebrated her thirtieth birthday with her parents? Would she see a happy woman? Yes, she would, Kristin concluded. So why could that happiness not be shared with the people who, she presumed, wanted to see her happy most in the world? Or was the happiness they wanted for her so tangled up with their own expectations and hopes and dreams that Kristin was not allowed her own individual style of happiness? Her own desires? And wasn’t that the most ludicrous notion of all?
Keeping up appearances was not on Kristin’s to-do list for her birthday party. It simply couldn’t be. It was a milestone birthday. Thirty years ago, her mother, who had come to this country as a mere adolescent on a student visa, had given birth to her, had made Kristin’s life possible. So didn’t she owe it to the labor her mother had gone through, not just on that day but all the ones coming before and after, to share this new happiness she had found? One more profound than she had ever encountered before in her adult life, where birthdays had become a reminder of all the things she hadn’t yet done?
Kristin’s mother cut the cake. She offered a big portion to Kristin, while only cutting a thin slice for herself and Kristin’s father. This was usually the time when Kristin’s father would say a few words expressing his pride in her. Kristin remembered the elaborate speeches he used to deliver when she was in her early teens, and how she’d sat beaming in the gloriousness of his words, still too young to be aware of the many expectations it heaped on her.
Instead of speaking, her father fixed his eyes on her and gazed at her intently—the way he would look at one of his patients, Kristin knew, because her father was still her GP when it came to trivial matters like a cold. For more intimate medical matters, she’d found someone outside the family a long time ago.
“There’s something different about you,” Kristin’s father said.
“She looks like she spent too much time in the sun without applying sunscreen,” her mother, the dermatologist, said.
Kristin hated it when they spoke about her in the third person, as though she wasn’t even there. But old habits were hard to break. Her parents had done this for as long as she could remember. As though their daughter was an asset to be discussed—to be valued.
“I went to the Blue Mountains last weekend,” she said. She almost added “with a friend”, but Sheryl was already so much more than a friend. Calling her that would diminish what they had, and that was the opposite of what Kristin wanted to do. She wanted to honor their connection, their coup de foudre, that special something they shared.