A Dad’s handwriting
Before even the birds had stirred, my parents tiptoed into my room in turns—pretending to check if I was asleep. But I knew what they were really checking: not my sleep, but my presence. They needed to see me there, with their own eyes, to believe it. I could hear their steps from the living room. And each time, I would quickly slip my phone under the blanket and shut my eyes. I didn’t want to ruin the moment. I wanted to protect their wonder.
A few days ago, I watched Geum-myeong sob through her flight to Japan, overwhelmed by thoughts of her mother, Ae-soon in the drama “When Life Gives You Tangerines.” And as I watched her cry, I cried too—because she looked just like I did, four years ago.
I had been at the airport then, trying to unzip the front pocket of my carry-on at the security checkpoint to remove my rings, when I stumbled upon an envelope. A letter from my mother. I hadn’t expected it. I wasn’t even feeling particularly emotional that day. But as soon as I saw her handwriting, the tears came, fierce and unrelenting. I locked myself in a bathroom stall and cried until the gate opened. It wasn’t sadness exactly—just something too big for words, spilling over.
“You can’t even cook ramen right now, but if you do it twice, it becomes easy. You’ve always been that way—with everything. That’s why I’m not worried. Every challenge in life is just a bowl of ramen.”
– My mother’s letter, its last line.
My mother got married at the exact age I am now. When I asked her if she knew what she was doing back then, she said: “I didn’t know much. But I knew two things. I wouldn’t starve with your father. And I trusted my future.” That was enough for her.
Even at school events, she parked her car right in the center of the lot—bold, unafraid. She always grumbled about me being class vice president year after year. Said it was too much fuss. But for me, she stood on stage eleven years in a row, except senior year. I, foolishly thinking vice president meant I was being considerate.
Once, while preparing for study abroad, I missed an English exam—late, for the first time in my life, and on the one day it mattered most. My face burned with shame the whole way home. My gums bled from how hard I’d bitten down. I expected a scolding. Had even prepared to yell back. But she said nothing. Instead, she took Dad and me to an expensive Italian restaurant. Ordered the finest bottle of wine.
“This,” she said, “is the cost of today. You paid for your mistake. Now don’t forget this. Don’t forget how this feels. And never be late again.”
That night, with one bottle of wine, my mother gifted me a resilience that would last my lifetime. If it can’t be fixed in five minutes, keep going. If it breaks your pride, keep going. If you’re still breathing, it’s not the end. Keep going. That became my quiet gospel.
She gave me the courage to close a book when my mind was tired. To eat first, because food is sacred. To enjoy without competing. To go all the way for the things I believe in. And when things fall apart, to trust I won’t.
I know I have not given her nearly as much in return. Children rarely do. But still—for her, and for my father, who smiles for me through snow and storm—I live each moment with all I have. When I fall, I keep going. When I laugh, I keep going, going.