Han

Grandmother did not tell stories. That was the first thing Jiyoon understood about her, at about six, and the last thing she understood at thirty-four, and everything in between was an attempt to get around it.

Other grandmothers had a war in them somewhere. They produced it at gatherings, polished, with a moral. Halmeoni had a war in her too — everyone knew the outline, the village, the walk south, the brother who did not arrive — and she had never once been persuaded to say a sentence about it.