At twenty-one, she met Kang Jun, a Ko:re:an man nearly twenty years older than her. I opposed it — not out of prejudice, but because of the age gap and the distance. But my daughter was stubborn. There was a determination in her eyes that I had no power to change.

They married in a simple ceremony. A month later, she left with him for SK. At the airport, she hugged me and cried. I cried too, but in silence. I thought she would return in a few years. She never did. One year passed. Then two. Then five. I stopped asking. Only the money kept coming — every year, exactly eighty thousand dollars, with a short message: “Mom, take good care of yourself. I’m doing well.” That word — well — was what worried me most. We had a video call once. She was still beautiful, but her eyes weren’t the same. Always in a hurry. Always distant. I asked why she didn’t come home. She went quiet, then said: “I’m very busy, Mom.” I didn’t ask again. Sometimes, mothers become cowards out of fear of hearing the truth.

Time passed. My house improved thanks to the money she sent. Everyone said I was fortunate. But how can you be happy eating alone every day? Every Christmas, I set a place for her. I would cook her favorite stew and cry in silence. Twelve years. It’s too long. Finally, I made a decision: I was going to Korea. I didn’t tell her anything. For a sixty-three-year-old woman who had never left the country, it was madness. But I bought the ticket with trembling hands and went.

I arrived and took a taxi to her address. A two-story house, quiet — too quiet. The garden was nice but lifeless. I knocked. No answer. The door wasn’t locked. I walked in. The house was clean, too clean. No signs of a man living there. No men’s clothing. No smell of food. I went upstairs. One room with women’s clothes. Another like an office, barely used. And the last one — my legs gave out. Boxes, so many boxes, filled with cash. My mind went blank. At that moment, I heard the door open downstairs.

“Mom.”

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