Her voice wavers then, just slightly.
“I thought the best way to be your mother was to disappear. To let you swim on your own.”
After a short pause, something shifts. It’s not forgiveness—not yet—but a willingness to look at things through her eyes. I begin to see her not as the woman who abandoned me, but as someone who chose herself over rotting in despair. Someone who risked everything so I might have a chance at something better, however flawed her logic was.
I don’t reach for her hand yet. I just breathe, letting that truth settle. Letting the years of anger twist into something quieter: comprehension.
We sit together for a while, neither of us speaking, the air between us filled with something I haven’t felt in years—possibility. Possibility that we can start over, however messy and slow it might be.
When I finally stand, I slip on my jacket and scoop up Hondongi. “I should go,” I say softly.
She nods, then hesitates. “Min-hee,” she says, her voice trembling just a little. “I know I don’t have the right to ask for much. But… if you ever need a place to come back to, a home—” she pauses, searching my face, “—I’m here. I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere again.”
For a second, I can’t speak. The words hang between us, fragile and real, the kind that don’tneed an answer right away. I just nod, holding her gaze long enough for her to know I heard.
***
Three months later, I’m still in Jeju. I’m helping my mother at The Last Shore Cafe, our relationship a fragile, tentative thing we’re rebuilding one over-steamed cup of milk at a time. I am, unsurprisingly, a terrible barista. But I’m learning.
We talk. Not about the heavy stuff—not yet. We talk about little things: the weather, the customer who complains about his cappuccino foam every single day, the neighbor’s tree that’s slowly creeping into the cafe entrance.
It’s a start.
I’m walking Hondongi along the black sand beach from the postcards.
He’s no longer a trembling mess. He is a goofy, happy dog, convinced he can catch the seagulls he’s absolutely never going to catch.
He’s healing. And so am I.
I snap a few photos on my analog camera, then some on my phone—selfies with Hondongi—and send them to Gigi, Bora, my aunt, and Shin, tellingthem theyhaveto come visit during summer vacation.
I smile, a genuine smile that feels easy, and slide the phone back into my pocket.
I look out at the endless ocean, wind whipping through my hair, salty spray cooling my cheeks. For the past fifteen years, my life has been a script: every hour planned, every line rehearsed, every emotion carefully curated for the cameras.
Now? No script. No call sheet. Not even a map.
And the quiet, thrilling mess of it all feels an awful lot like peace.
***
