For much of the pandemic, while without childcare and school, we left our city apartment and went to my parents? house in the suburbs to stay for an indeterminate amount of time. My husband and I slept in my childhood bedroom, while our kids, 3 and 5, shared a queen bed in the next room. We landed with a heavy footprint, during an emotionally heavy and stressful time?the kids were wild, our belongings were in boxes all over the house, and we had no idea when we?d be able to go home again. And yet, I had also somehow imagined this would be a time for connection between my biracial city kids and their Korean grandparents. 
When my daughter was born, I wanted her to be bilingual in a way that I wasn?t. Her mind was a fresh canvas, and her capacity for language and for learning would be rich. She was the first grandchild, and I had visions of her learning the stories and language about my extended family that I barely knew. She?d be fluent in the language I wished I could speak, and she?d eat the foods I?d grown up with, still adopting the palette of flavours from foods that I couldn?t cook. I?d imagined that moving into their house and having their language, the Korean food, their stories, and their help with childcare would be seamless. 
It wasn?t.  
My mom insisted on sneaking out to the grocery store multiple times a week even in those scary early days, when we were advised to stockpile food and everyone was still disinfecting their purchases. My dad entertained the ki...