The old woman didn\u2019t move. Neither did I.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Between us sat Isabelle\u2019s portrait, illuminated by a gray light filtering through the massive windows of the twenty-seventh floor. Down below, Seoul remained alive, full of cars, lights, and rushed people. But up there, in that soulless living room, time had stopped years ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat did you say?\u201d I asked, even though I had heard her perfectly. The old woman looked down. \u201cYour daughter never lived here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I felt the letter burning between my fingers. \u201cBut this was her address. She sent me letters from here. She sent me money from here. She sent me photos of the city, of snow-covered trees, of Korean food, of gifts\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The woman slowly picked up the bag of flowers. Her hands were shaking. She wasn\u2019t a rich woman, even though she was in a rich person\u2019s apartment. She wore an old coat, sensible shoes, and her white hair pulled back in a low bun. Her dark, tired eyes looked as if they had cried more than a person should cry in one lifetime.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI sent some of the letters,\u201d she said. I looked at her as if she had struck me. \u201cYou?\u201d \u201cNot all of them. Not at first. But later\u2026 yes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The air caught in my chest. \u201cWho are you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The old woman swallowed hard. She walked over to Isabelle\u2019s portrait, arranged the white flowers next to the candles, and bowed slightly, as if asking for forgiveness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMy name is Han Sun-hee. I am Min-jun\u2019s mother.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The name pierced me with rage. Min-jun. My daughter\u2019s perfect husband. The man who, according to the letters, took her to dinner by the Han River, bought her wool coats, took care of her when she was sick, and called her his \u201cAmerican star.\u201d The man Isabelle spoke of as if he were a miracle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhere is he?\u201d I asked. Sun-hee pressed her lips together. \u201cHe shouldn\u2019t be far.\u201d \u201cI want to see him.\u201d \u201cYou don\u2019t know what you are asking.\u201d \u201cI want to see the man who stole my daughter!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My voice bounced off the pristine walls. I finally screamed. Finally, something inside me broke with a sound.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The old woman closed her eyes. \u201cHe didn\u2019t steal her.\u201d I took a step toward her. \u201cThen what did he do?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sun-hee looked at the letter in my hands. \u201cRead.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked down. My fingers were so stiff I almost tore the paper. I recognized Isabelle\u2019s handwriting immediately. That rounded, slanted handwriting I had seen in elementary school notebooks, on made-up recipes, on Mother\u2019s Day cards covered in glitter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFor Mom, if she ever comes\u2026\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I breathed as best I could and kept reading.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cForgive me, Mom. If you are reading this, it means I couldn\u2019t come back. Don\u2019t believe everything they told you. Don\u2019t believe I was happy the whole time. Don\u2019t believe I forgot about you. I thought about you every single day.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n The letters blurred. I wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my coat, but I didn\u2019t cry yet. I couldn\u2019t. If I cried, I felt like I would fall and never get back up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI married Min-jun believing that love could save me from poverty, from shame, from feeling like I wasn\u2019t enough. He was good at first. Or I needed him to be. He brought me to Korea, promised I could study, work, and help you. But here I learned that you can cross the world and still be locked in a cage.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I brought my hand to my mouth. Sun-hee remained still, like a shadow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe took my passport for safekeeping, he said. He asked me not to talk to you too much because you would worry. He told me that if I told you my problems, it would make you sick. I believed him. Then he started deciding what clothes I wore, what I said, when I went out. I learned to smile in photos I never sent you.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked around. \u201cWhere was she?\u201d I asked, my voice cracking. \u201cWhere did my daughter live?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sun-hee pointed toward the hallway. \u201cNot here. Somewhere else. Smaller. Farther away.\u201d \u201cDid you know?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The old woman bowed her head. That was her answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I kept reading.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIf you ever receive money, don\u2019t think I bought my absence. I send you what I can because it\u2019s the only way to feel like I\u2019m still your daughter. I don\u2019t want you baking pies in the cold. I don\u2019t want your knees to hurt because of me. But, Mom, if one day I stop writing in my own handwriting, be suspicious. If the letters sound too happy, be suspicious. If they tell you I\u2019m busy, be suspicious.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I couldn\u2019t catch my breath. Twelve years. Twelve Christmases receiving envelopes, wire transfers, cards with beautiful phrases.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMerry Christmas, Mom. It snowed a lot here. Min-jun got me a red coat.\u201d<\/em> \u201cI can\u2019t travel this year, there\u2019s too much work.\u201d<\/em> \u201cTake care of your hands, Mom. Buy a new stove.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I used to read them out loud to my neighbors. I kept them in a cookie tin as if they were blessings. Whenever someone said, \u201cYour daughter already forgot about you,\u201d I would pull out a letter and defend her like a wild animal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And my daughter, from somewhere, had written to me: be suspicious<\/em>. I wasn\u2019t suspicious.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I sat on the edge of the sofa, because my legs could no longer hold me. \u201cWhen did she die?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sun-hee didn\u2019t answer immediately. \u201cNine years ago.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The world lost all sound. Nine. Nine years selling baked goods to brag about a walking corpse. Nine years buying flowers for a daughter who could no longer smell them. Nine years saying, \u201cIsabelle is doing great, thank God.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I felt my stomach turn. \u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cNo. I spoke to her eight years ago. She sent me a voice memo.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sun-hee looked at me with pity. That pity scared me more than any word. \u201cIt was an old recording.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I shot up. \u201cNo!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I pulled out my phone with clumsy hands. I searched through saved files, WhatsApp folders, ancient messages I had never deleted. I found the audio. I played it. Isabelle\u2019s voice filled the room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHi, Mommy. Don\u2019t cry because I won\u2019t be able to make it this Christmas. I love you so much. So, so much. Eat a slice of pie for me.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n My daughter laughed at the end. That laugh. That laugh I had used as medicine for years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sun-hee covered her face. \u201cThat audio was from before.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I turned off the phone. The silence returned, crueler than before.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWho did this to me?\u201d I whispered. \u201cWho had the heart to send me the voice of my dead daughter?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The old woman took a step closer. \u201cI didn\u2019t send that audio.\u201d \u201cBut you sent the letters.\u201d \u201cSome of them.\u201d \u201cAnd the money?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sun-hee shook her head. \u201cHe sent the money.\u201d \u201cMin-jun?\u201d \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked at her. \u201cThen who?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Before she could answer, a phone rang somewhere in the apartment. Sun-hee went rigid. The sound was coming from a small table by the window. A black cell phone buzzed on the wood. A Korean name appeared on the screen. The old woman looked at it as if it were a threat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDon\u2019t answer it,\u201d she said. But I was already too broken to obey.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I picked up the phone. Sun-hee tried to stop me, but I answered. \u201cHello?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n There was silence on the other end. Then a male voice spoke in perfect English. \u201cMs. Martha.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n My blood ran cold. It wasn\u2019t Min-jun. I remembered Min-jun\u2019s voice from a phone call many years ago, when he asked for my blessing to marry Isabelle. He had a heavy accent, soft words. Not this voice. This voice was clean, controlled, polite.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWho is this?\u201d \u201cYou shouldn\u2019t have traveled without letting us know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked at Sun-hee. She was pale as a ghost. \u201cWho are you?\u201d I repeated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The man sighed. \u201cSomeone who has taken care of you for a long time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The rage rose so fast it made me dizzy. \u201cTaken care of me? Sending me money using my dead daughter\u2019s name is taking care of me?\u201d \u201cIt was what she wanted.\u201d \u201cMy daughter wanted to live!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The man\u2019s voice didn\u2019t change. \u201cIsabelle wanted to make sure you didn\u2019t suffer.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I let out an ugly, unfamiliar laugh. \u201cWell, she did a terrible job.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sun-hee gestured desperately for me to hang up. I didn\u2019t. \u201cWhere is Min-jun?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The man remained silent. \u201cTell me where my daughter\u2019s husband is.\u201d \u201cMin-jun died seven years ago.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The room spun. I leaned against the table so I wouldn\u2019t fall. \u201cLiar.\u201d \u201cI have no reason to lie to you about that.\u201d \u201cThen who are you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Another pause. Then he said: \u201cTomorrow at ten. Cafe Miru, across from Dosan Park. Come alone. Bring Isabelle\u2019s letter.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m not going anywhere until you tell me\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The call ended.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stared at the dark screen. Sun-hee began to cry silently. \u201cYou don\u2019t understand,\u201d she said. \u201cYou shouldn\u2019t have spoken to him.\u201d \u201cWho is he?\u201d \u201cThe man who saved what little was left.\u201d \u201cFrom what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The old woman looked at Isabelle\u2019s photo. \u201cFrom the truth.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I approached her slowly, feeling like every step trampled on a lost year. \u201cMs. Sun-hee, look at me.\u201d She looked up. \u201cI crossed half the world thinking I was coming to hug my daughter. I found her shrine. I find out she died nine years ago, that someone faked her life, that her husband is also dead, and that there is a mysterious man playing games with my grief. So don\u2019t tell me I don\u2019t understand. Explain it to me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The old woman wiped her tears. \u201cMin-jun was my son,\u201d she said. \u201cAnd I loved him. But he wasn\u2019t a good man.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The sentence fell with an ancient weight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhen Isabelle arrived in Korea, I thought she would be happy. She was sweet. She tried hard to learn our language. She cooked spicy food for me and then laughed because it made me cry. She called me omoni<\/em>, mother. I\u2026 I wanted to love her.\u201d \u201cWanted to?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sun-hee bowed her head. \u201cIn this family, wanting to love wasn\u2019t always enough.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She walked over to a low cabinet and pulled out a wooden box. She opened it carefully. Inside were more photos, letters, a silver earring, a red string bracelet, a prayer card of the Virgin Mary. My Virgin Mary. The one I gave Isabelle at the airport.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I snatched it from her hands. \u201cThis was hers.\u201d \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I pressed it against my chest. I saw her again: my twenty-two-year-old girl, skinny, excited, hugging me before crossing through security. \u201cDon\u2019t cry, Mom. I\u2019m going to come back with a lot of money and buy you a house with a backyard.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I let her go because I thought children weren\u2019t born to stay tied to your apron strings. I never imagined the world could swallow her whole.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sun-hee pulled out another photograph. Isabelle was sitting on a bed, much thinner, with short hair and a hand resting on her belly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stopped breathing. \u201cWas she pregnant?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The old woman closed her eyes. \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n My heart started pounding so hard it hurt. \u201cDid she have a baby?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sun-hee didn\u2019t answer. \u201cTell me if my daughter had a child!\u201d \u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d \u201cWhat do you mean you don\u2019t know?\u201d \u201cBecause the night Isabelle died, the little girl disappeared, too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I felt something inside me tear open\u2014not like a wound, but like an abyss. \u201cA little girl?\u201d The word came out tiny. A girl. My granddaughter. My blood.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My Isabelle hadn\u2019t died alone. She had left a child somewhere. I brought my hand to my chest. \u201cNo. No. Don\u2019t do this to me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sun-hee was crying. \u201cThey named her Hana. Isabelle wanted to name her Mary, after you, but Min-jun said no. On the papers, she was Han Hana. She was three months old when everything happened.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The living room, the lights of Seoul, the snow against the windows, everything began to blur. \u201cIs she alive?\u201d \u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I grabbed her by the arms. \u201cYou have to know!\u201d \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d she sobbed. \u201cThey looked for her. Or they said they looked for her. Min-jun was destroyed, or pretended to be. The family wanted to hush everything up. There was shame, an investigation, potential press. A dead foreigner. A missing baby. Money. Family names. No one wanted a scandal.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHow did Isabelle die?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sun-hee went completely still. For the first time, I saw genuine fear on her face. \u201cThe official version was an accident.\u201d \u201cAnd the real one?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She didn\u2019t answer. Then I understood. I squeezed the prayer card until it folded. \u201cHe killed her.\u201d \u201cI can\u2019t say that.\u201d \u201cBut you think it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sun-hee covered her mouth. \u201cI found her at the bottom of the stairs in the old building. There was blood. A lot of it. Min-jun said she had tried to run away with the baby, that she tripped. But her suitcases were hidden in my house. Isabelle had left them with me that morning. She asked for my help. She asked me to buy plane tickets. I\u2026 I took too long.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her voice broke. \u201cI was a coward.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t let go of her. \u201cAnd my granddaughter?\u201d \u201cWhen I got there, the baby was gone.\u201d \u201cDid Min-jun take her?\u201d \u201cHe swore he didn\u2019t. But that night, a man who worked for the family also disappeared. A driver. Young. His name was Park Ji-hoon.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The voice on the phone hadn\u2019t had a Korean accent when speaking English, but it could be someone who spent years learning. Someone who knew Isabelle. Someone who maybe carried her child. \u201cThe man on the phone is Ji-hoon?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sun-hee gave a tiny nod. \u201cHe sent the money.\u201d \u201cWhy?\u201d \u201cBecause Isabelle saved his life once.\u201d \u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s not my place to say.\u201d \u201cShe was my daughter!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The old woman shrank back as if my scream had burned her. \u201cTomorrow he will tell you more.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stepped away from her. I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Seoul shined below, indifferent, massive, beautiful, and cruel. Somewhere in that city, or that country, or the world, there could be a little girl with Isabelle\u2019s eyes. My granddaughter. Hana. Mary. A girl who would be nine years old, maybe ten. A girl who probably didn\u2019t know her grandmother baked pies in Chicago and saved an extra plate every Christmas \u201cjust in case Isabelle came back.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I turned around. \u201cWhy did you put her shrine here if she never lived here?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sun-hee looked at the portrait. \u201cBecause Ji-hoon bought this apartment years later. He said there needed to be a clean place to remember her. A place where, if you ever came, you wouldn\u2019t find poverty, or blood, or shame.\u201d \u201cBut I found lies.\u201d \u201cYes.\u201d \u201cAnd you robbed me of my mourning.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sun-hee bowed her head. \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n That word drained whatever little strength I had left. I sat on the floor, next to the low table. I no longer cared if I looked ridiculous. I no longer cared about the cold marble or my cheap coat in that elegant living room. I hugged Isabelle\u2019s photograph to my chest and finally cried.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I cried like I hadn\u2019t cried when my husband died. I cried like I hadn\u2019t cried when my daughter left. I cried for every fake Christmas, for every dollar I received with gratitude, for every neighbor I bragged to about an invented happiness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sun-hee didn\u2019t try to comfort me. Maybe she knew she had no right.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When night fell, the old woman made tea. I didn\u2019t drink it. I asked her to take me to the place where Isabelle had lived. She said it was dangerous. I told her a mother without her daughter fears almost nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We took a taxi through streets I didn\u2019t understand, past neon signs and narrow buildings. The city changed. It became less shiny, more cramped, more human. We got out in front of an old building with narrow stairs and water-stained walls.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sun-hee didn\u2019t want to go up. I did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n On the third floor, in front of a rusted door, she pulled out a key. \u201cNo one has lived here since,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The door opened with a groan. The smell of confinement hit me. Dust. Old wood. Cold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Inside, there was almost nothing: a low bed, a table, a broken chair, a yellowed curtain. But on one wall, drawn in pencil, were tiny flowers. Flowers exactly like the ones Isabelle used to draw as a little girl on the napkins at our pie stand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stepped closer. Beneath one flower, I found a word written in English: \u201cMom.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I fell to my knees. I touched the wall with an open palm. My daughter was there. She breathed there. She was afraid there. She called out for me there, and I couldn\u2019t hear her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sun-hee turned on her phone\u2019s flashlight. In a corner, near the floorboards, there was an old, dark stain, almost faded away. I didn\u2019t ask what it was. I didn\u2019t need to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then something crunched under my shoe. I bent down. Between two loose floorboards was a piece of clear plastic. I pulled on it. It was a tiny plastic bag, covered in dust.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Inside was a baby bracelet. A hospital band. The name was almost faded, but it could still be read: Han Hana.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n And beneath it, handwritten in blue ink, in a handwriting I would recognize even with a shattered soul: Mary, forgive me.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Sun-hee brought her hands to her mouth. I squeezed the bracelet as if it were a living hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At that moment, down on the street, a black car pulled up in front of the building. We heard doors shut. Footsteps. Men\u2019s voices.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sun-hee abruptly turned off her phone light. \u201cThey found us,\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I tucked the bracelet inside my blouse, right next to the folded prayer card. The footsteps started coming up. One. Two. Three floors.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The old woman grabbed my arm, trembling. \u201cMs. Martha, whatever you do, do not hand over that bracelet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Someone knocked on the door. Three soft knocks. Then a male voice spoke from the hallway, in perfect English: \u201cMs. Martha, it\u2019s Ji-hoon. Please open the door. There is no more time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked at Sun-hee. She shook her head, terrified.<\/p>\n\n\n\n On the other side, another voice spoke in Korean, harsher, closer. Ji-hoon spoke again: \u201cIf you want to know where your granddaughter is, you have to trust me right now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n My hand closed over Hana\u2019s bracelet. The door rattled again. This time, not as a knock. As a warning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And I, with my daughter\u2019s name written on a dead wall and my granddaughter\u2019s hidden against my heart, understood that I had crossed the world not to say goodbye to Isabelle\u2026 but to start looking for her in someone else.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The old woman didn\u2019t move. Neither did I. Between us sat Isabelle\u2019s portrait, illuminated by a gray light filtering through the massive windows of the twenty-seventh floor…. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3125","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3125","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=3125"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3125\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3128,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3125\/revisions\/3128"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=3125"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=3125"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=3125"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}