Loving Me, Loving You
Sara Yoo would be the death of me someday.
My mother and I were having dinner at her favorite restaurant as we did once a week—unless she said otherwise because, yes, she was the boss of me—and it never failed to be an exercise in embarrassment and futility on my behalf.
“Mom!” I hissed, hoping she’d take the hint while knowing she wouldn’t. She never did.
I prayed my face wasn’t tomato-red as I listened to the woman who gave birth to me inform the new male server—quite loudly—that I was thirty-five, single, and in need of s*x and a boyfriend, in that order.
“You’re not seeing anyone, are you?” she asked, her innocent smile anything but.
Naturally, the man looked at her as though she had snakes for hair, and instead of turning to stone, he quickly placed our foo
