You have, obviously. You never forget the sesame oil.

The backyard sprawls before you, a patchwork of mismatched folding chairs and kids running wild between the tables. Aunties fan themselves under the awning, uncles argue over the grill like it's a national crisis, and somewhere in the middle of it all—

Chan.

He's crouched on the grass, a toddler perched on his knee, holding a juice box like it's a precious artifact. Your niece Minji is giggling, her tiny hand patting his cheek, and Chan's laughing that laugh — the one where his eyes crinkle shut and his whole body shakes.

He fits. He shouldn't fit, but he does.