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finger, every toe, rolling each one between her
index finger and thumb.
Then, in the hallway, my grandfather was
talking to someone Ummah didn’t know. Then
he was talking to his son, my father. Then he
slapped his son, my father, across the face and
walked away. Then my father walked away too.
I couldn’t breathe. The professor was crying
as she translated Ummah’s words. The student
was also crying.
The stranger came into the birthing room.
She had papers in her hand. Someone lifted me
from Ummah’s arms. The stranger said some-
thing about a God Ummah wouldn’t know until
decades later. Something about doing the right
thing. Something about the future.
The story slowed to a stop around there. The
waves of tension and pain broke. There was
nothing else to say. Exhaustion rushed in. But
when it was done, Ummah held on to me, awk-
ward because we were two grown women seated
on the floor, so our legs got in the way. She held
my hand still. She offered me her breast, some-
thing she’d not thought of or hadn’t the time for
when first she bore me into the world.
I declined, saddened. Most of what’d
been told didn’t register in the moment.
It would come back to me in memory
later. Because early on, something my
mother said triggered three words that
repeated blood-pulse and thunder in my
head. Louder than my history and my
mother’s life secrets unfurling, spread
out immodestly in front of strangers.
Louder than the still-raging ocean.
Water breaking hard. Then pressure.
Then pain that could split a woman in
two. Then quiet awe at what had just
happened. That night, I cried in front
of my mother at last. When she stopped
speaking and the room vibrated, those
three words fell from my mouth, over
and over. The only thing I’d say in re-
sponse to her telling. You wanted me. Ummah promised she’d not been ashamed
when I was growing inside her. Even though my
father was married. Even though he already had
one child. A son. Still a baby. He promised we’d
be a family instead. Him, Ummah, me. They
rented an apartment. I wondered who signed
the lease, but I was afraid to interrupt. Now I
wish I had. It makes a difference who signed it.
She was in Seoul to work. She was sewing in
a factory, as she’d continue to do for decades.
As she was doing still when we’d met earlier that
year. Her family was in Gimcheon, hours away.
Worlds away. She was young. She loved him.
He sang to her. His hair was thick with curls.
His skin, like hers, was dark and rich. He was
taller than most Korean men. He had freckles.
He was from the city and she couldn’t believe he
wanted to love her. And then she didn’t believe
he ever actually did. I was afraid to move. I was
afraid she’d stop talking. At times I looked out
the window, but it was pitch-black and I saw
only our reflections mirrored back. I was hold-
ing my breath. She was holding my hand.
Another baby came. My sister. Unni. Also
with his wife. She must look like her
mother, because she doesn’t look like
our father, she doesn’t look like me. He
lived between homes, sometimes with
his already-born children, sometimes
with my mother. And then, only a few
months later, I arrived.
It was early morning. She remem-
bered that. Her parents were there.
I was quiet. She’d been dreaming
of persimmon and rock fruit during
her pregnancy, so she knew I’d be a
girl. She swore the room filled with
the smell of iron and cinnamon when
I emerged. My father was there. His
parents were there. None of them
looked at her. None of them looked
at me. Panicked because she remem-
bered the stress of her pregnancy, my
mother scanned me, counting everyExcerpted from Older
Sister. Not Necessarily
Related. by Jenny
Heijun Wills. Copy-
right © 2019 Jenny
Heijun Wills. Published
by McClelland &
Stewart, a division
of Penguin Random
House Canada
Limited. Reproduced
by arrangement with
the publisher. All
rights reserved.excerpt
Ummah promised she’d not been ashamed when I
was growing inside her. Even though my father
was married. Even though he already had one child.
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