“Uhm-ma!” No answer.

“I’m home!” No answer. My heart sinks
“Mom?” Still no answer. I let out a long sigh.
Feeling inexplicably famished, I race to the kitchen only to discover a pink post-it note attached to the edge of the dining table.

Dear Katie,
  Dad and I are going to meet some old friends. Heat up the rice and seaweed soup for dinner. Don’t forget to drink your Korean herbal medicine if you want to grow taller.

        Love,
         Mom

P.S. Your cello teacher is coming at nine today.

I’m not surprised. In fact, I instinctively take out a glass cup filled with a repulsively brown liquid consisting of who-knows what. Trudging heavily to my room, I clutch the cup in my left hand, all the while making sure that the putrescent odor does not reach my keen sense of smell. Of course, I toss it in the trash.
It wasn’t always like this. When I was still living in the States, my mom and I would always bake a glorious bunch of cupcakes for my birthday. We were professional patissiers, Mom and I — true partners in the art of baking.
I can still recall my miniature self, standing ecstatically in the sleek interior of my old kitchen: a glistening array of pots, pans and knives hung upon the wall along with my mom’s ancient recipe books. Whenever my mother would ask for “two sticks of butter,” I would hand her the butter. When she requested “one cup of flour,” I would measure precisely one perfect cup of flour and pour it into the metallic bowl. When she needed “two eggs,” I would crack open two exquisitely round eggs and throw the thin shells into the sink. We would never forget to mix in a half teaspoon of vanilla, two tablespoons of milk and last but not least, a delectably piquant dash of cinnamon.
Beating the cake batter on high speed was exhilarating. I often reminiscence about the jarring clash of the two metal surfaces that once sounded like sheer music to my ears, the hypnotic way in which the whisks would spin and whirl inside the once polished aluminum receptacle, and the small pieces of batter that would fly out and smear my apron. At times, I would not be able to resist the intoxicating smell of cinnamon and vanilla and end up licking the dough off my stubby fingers. After what would seem like a few seconds, the irregular mass of ingredients would magically transform into a sweet goopy liquid which my mom and I would scoop into a cupcake pan filled with pink Disney princess wrappers.
My mom would set the timer to exactly 23 minutes — no more, no less. Then, she would sit me on a wooden stool and we would gaze intently into the crimson-colored oven and observe the cupcakes rise millimeter by millimeter. My mother would wrap her arms around me and lean forward to kiss my flour-dusted cheek.
“I love you,” she would whisper gently into my ear.
“I love you too,” I would reply, clutching her warm, soft hands against my face.
Then, she would lift me up and let me lie on my bed as I fell into a deep slumber. My dreams would most commonly be filled with unicorns, kittens and princes in shining armor.
“Happy Birthday!” all at once, the door to my room would bang open and my entire family would burst out in song.
“Make a wish,” the tips of my mom’s lips would curl into a smile as she gazed at me with loving eyes. Inhaling the incredibly sweet aroma of freshly baked cupcakes, I would blow each and every candle out with a secret wish.
At last, I would sink my teeth into the moist, sponge-like texture of the vanilla cupcake once. Then twice. Finally, I would succumb to my temptations and engulf the vanilla buttercream in its divine entirety, relishing in its rich creaminess and luscious caramel drizzle. The saccharine crunch of silver sprinkles would greatly satisfy my sinful indulgence and lead me to finishing the decadent cake and frosting in whole.
That was then. In America. When I was still an innocent Korean American daughter who knew nothing of the difficulties of being a teenager.
Now I am in South Korea — Seoul to be exact. I peel open a cup of instant ramen and fill it with boiling water. I take out a packet of spicy seasoning and a pair of wooden chopsticks.
I close my eyes and visualize a glistening array of lit candles before me.
I blow.
“Ouch!” I bite my tongue in agony as the cup of noodles tips over, the hot soup searing against my skin.
I quickly grab a paper towel and clean myself.
It is eight o’clock. One hour before my cello lesson. I feel the slight tingle of my phone vibrating in my left pocket and pick it up to see my mom texting me.
Mom: Katie.
Me: What?
Mom: You must do good.
Me: I’ll try to.
Mom: Speak louder. Speak more.
Me: OK
Mom: Get good SAT scores.
Me: OK
Mom: Practice cello.
Me: OK
Mom: I luv you ????
Me: Me 2. ????
Mom: Bye.
Me: Kk. BTW, it’s my birthday tomorrow.
Mom: (no answer)
Me (again): Mom?
I throw my phone onto my desk.
“Never mind,” I tell myself. I collapse onto my bed, take out my laptop and search: ‘How to make a birthday cupcake.’