I didn't cry when Eomma Jin died. I didn't even cry when we buried him.

No, I cried when we sold the table.

We had practically grown up around that table; me and my older brothers. I'd always loved that table- big and broad and strong and warm like Eomma Jin always was. He'd sit us down at the table and then carry big steaming plates of food over and set them down in front of us.

One time, the plate that he gave Jimin was so hot it left scorch marks in the table under it. None of us thought about how Jin had carried it to the table bare-handed, not until years later. When I asked him about it, he just shrugged and smiled.

"Sometimes, you just have to do something that hurts a bit, if you know it's going to help the people you love," he'd said. I had smiled and hugged him and then forgotten. I'd forgotten it all up until now.

My hand traced over the smooth wood of the table, dented and scratched all over. One time, I had been riding my bike inside the house, even though Eomma Jin had told us all a million times not to, and I slammed into the table and hit my head. Left a pretty good dent in the wood, too. Eomma Jin came running, and he tried to be cross with me about the bike-riding, but I was crying and aching all over and he just gave up and sat down on one of the rickety old chairs and picked me up and hugged me close until everything was okay again.

Namjoon taped a sign to the table, like the ones on all the old couches and rugs and even the worn-out mattress that we were selling at the garage sale. FOR SALE: DINING ROOM TABLE. SCRATCHES. There were blotches on the sign from when he had cried. I watched Namjoon go, and he just sort of smiled at me before walking away.

So no, I didn't cry when my Eomma Jin was diagnosed with cancer. I didn't cry as he got weaker and weaker and weaker. I didn't cry when he stopped bringing us steaming plates piled high with food to that same old dining room table every time we came to visit. I didn't cry when he died. Because he was my Eomma Jin.

Even if he was weary and thin and dying, he was still the same big shouldered, warm, invincible hyung who had raised us all; a bit banged up from practices, a bit worn and a bit old for our childish ways, but always strong, always there, always loving.

And now, with his table being sold, all of that was gone.

    I sank into the rickety old chair next to the table, my hand still pressing into the wood that was strong and comfortable and happy and gone forever, and I cried.