In the beginning it was calm. That first day was all rainbows and sunshine. But that second day, that second night, that was when it started.

The soju bottle clanked on the small shot glass as my sister poured me another drink.

“Drink! Drink!” she directed me. She was already mad I only drank two of the four bottles of flavored Soju she bought me. No one else likes it flavored but me. Her words started to slur together, flowing in and out of English and Korean, and her arms began gesticulating wildly. She was pissed. Her daughter got a tattoo and hid it from her for eight months. She said the Bible clearly states we are not to get tattoos. I sat there silent as I looked down at my three tattoos thinking, Well, we just ate pork belly and what does the Bible say about pork? But I didn’t say anything. I froze. Don’t make waves, I thought. It’s our last night together. Just let it go.

My sister grew up in extreme poverty. She talked about how the older sisters would go to the market and pick up food from the ground and bring it home for our mother to make dinner. Our father had jobs here and there but nothing that could support six children. The one time they did save money they put it in the floorboards of the house; they didn’t trust banks. But that came back and bit them in the ass as one of their tenants stole the money. These are the stories of my sister. These are the stories of my family. This was their beginning, that could’ve been my beginning. But instead here we are on a back porch in Seattle, relatives by blood but literally worlds apart.

Soju is the lifeblood of Korean drinking culture. I call it the sake of Korea but I don’t even know if that’s remotely accurate. My sister continued to pour soju into any glass that was around. My husband wasn’t even finished with his beer and she poured soju into it telling him he needed to drink. He politely picked up his glass to pretend to drink but she was already on to the next thought. She yelled at her husband to go inside and clean up, then gestured to my husband. It was clear the husbands were to go inside so she could get me alone. She leaned in and and grabbed my arm. In her broken English she told me a deep, dark secret. This foreign woman I met for the first time told me something I would not share with my closest friend. That was why she ran away. That was why she didn’t finish high school. I was shocked. I froze again. I didn’t know what to say. What does one say in a language that loses meaning from my lips to her ears. 

She yelled at me, “Don’t stare at me like that! That’s how my mother-in-law stares at me. That American stare!” 

What the hell do I do with that? All weekend she’d forgotten I AM AMERICAN! I didn’t choose it! Our mother left me on a doorstep so my Korean side was thrown away. Instead of kimchi I got sauerkraut. Instead of chopsticks I got forks. Instead of bibimbap I got casserole. I can’t change this no matter how much she says we are sisters, or I’m Korean. This is why I think my necklace with my new Korean name she’s given me is cute and she thinks it’s silly. This is why I have three tattoos she disapproves of and will probably get a fourth. 

I knew it was time to go. The night had slid downhill, fast, in a stream of soju. I picked up my phone to see when my daughter and hers would be back from getting boba when she slapped the phone out of my hand and yelled, “Are you fucking listening to me?”

“Yes, I’ve listened. I’ve listened all weekend. I’ve smiled, said thank you, tried to get to know you. I’ve listened to you rip on me for my silly American beliefs. I’ve listened to everything I’ve done wrong.”

And then in that moment, I was no longer yelling at my newly found sister, but my mother. In that moment I realized my sister has replaced my adopted mother—admonishing me, being critical of me, and reminding me I will never be good enough. It was fight or flight and I chose flight. I was gone.