I do not love my mother to the extent that she loves me. When she has a dream about me, she calls me to see if I’m alright. Whenever she senses there’s something wrong in the tone of my voice, she asks who’s bothering me as if she were an Italian boss ready to give the order for a hit. Somewhere in our conversations, my mother needs to know my predictions on when I will be married.

*in Korean
My Mother: When are you going to find a girl for yourself?
Alfred: Tomorrow.
My Mother: Aw, you...
Alfred: [laughs]
My Mother: Are you eating?
Alfred: Yes.
My Mother: You have to eat fruit.
Alfred: I know, Mom. I am. Don’t worry.
My Mother: I have to stop worrying, don’t I?
Alfred: Yes.
My Mother: I won’t. I’m your mother.
Alfred: [laughs]

If she calls me and finds out that I have been unusually violent by slamming my head against a heavy oak door and breaking two windows with a rocking chair, my mother will hang up the phone, climb into the car, and drive six hours in the middle of the night from Cherry Hill, New Jersey to Rochester, New York without a hint of hesitation. I’m afraid I will be the same with my own children.