CHANYEOL WASN'T AROUND IN THE MORNING. Neither was my mother. I was still too upset to face either of them. 

My mother returned around noon with a shopping bag in her hand. 

'I'm really sorry,' she said, unable to meet my eyes as she set the shopping bag at the couch next to me. She hesitated a moment, fidgeting wtih her hands and shifting uncomfortably. Without saying anything more, she turned and went up to her room. 

I watched her until she disappeared, then opened the bag and pulled out a green sweater. It wasn't the same one. But that wasn't the point. 

'Thanks,' I said from the entrance of her bedroom as she folded clothes from the laundry basket and stuffed them into her drawers. 

'Are you mad at me?' She sounded small and fragile. 

'No,' I replied with a small smile. 

'Can I still come to the game?' Her blue eyes were big and sorrowful; her lower lip stuck out in an exaggerated pout. 

'Yes.' I laughed lightly at her comical expression - reminiscent of a child getting caught colouring on the walls. 

'Great! What are you doing later?' my mother asked, her voice suddenly peppy and exicited. 

'Uh, I'm not sure,' I fumbled, still not used to the quick flip of her moods. 'Haeun and Soeung-Eun were talking about going to a party; EunJi's visiting Luhan. But Sehun and I haven't made any  commitments.' 

I leaned against the door frame. 

'You can come in,' my mother encouraged me, hanging up her clothes in the closet. 

I hadn't really seen my mother's room before. It had always been dark when I'd entered to help her to bed. It was simply decorated with white curtains hanging on the windows. The leaf-patterned bedspread was still rumpled, as if she'd made it by pulling the comforter over the creased sheets. 

A dresser with a mirror sat across from the bed with necklaces dangling from the mirror's edges. Perfume bottles and rings were scattered on its scratched surface. A framed picture caught my eye. 

'I'm not sure what to wear tonight,' she sighed.

'It's just a basketball game, so jeans work,' I advised her, picking up the frame to examine it more closely. It wasn't a picture at all, but a drawing done in pencil. The shading and detailing were phenomenal. I brought it closer to inspect the of the artist's work.

'Yeah, but I'm hoping -' She stopped to watch me. I quickly set the portrait down, afraid that I'd upset her by touching her things. 

'You can look at it,' she told me. 

I picked up the frame again and looked from the drawing to her, realizing it was my mother captured in a laugh, done before the stress lines around her eyes and mouth had formed. Her happiness was evident. I couldn't help but smile looking at it. 

'You don't remember that drawing? do you?' she asked, studying me. My eyes twitched, puzzled by her question. 'Your father drew that, back before you were born. You used to stare at that picture all the time when you were little.' 

'I did?' 

'You father drew pictures for you too. You'd sit at the kitchen table and he'd ask what your favourite part of the day had been, and then he'd draw it for you. You had his drawings plastered all over your room. Don't you remember?'

I scanned the floor, searching my memory, wanting to recall the moments she spoke of. I could hear laughter, and catch a glimpse of his face, but the memories refused to form. I shook my head, knitting my brows together in frustration. 

'Do you remember anything?' my mother enquired, her tone careful. She examined my confused face like she was just as confounded. 'You mean you don't.... remember... What I went through when.... Why you had to go....'