My daughter married a Korean man when she was 21. She hasn’t come home in twelve years,
take care of yourself. I’m doing well.” That word “well” was what worried me most. The neighbors whispered: “She sends a lot of money but never comes back; something must be going on.”
I would just smile, but at night I could find no peace. Once we had a video call; she was still beautiful, but her eyes were different: always hurried, always distant. I asked her why she didn’t come back, and she paused in silence before replying: “I’m very busy with work, Mom.”
I didn’t ask anymore. Sometimes, a mother becomes a coward for fear of hearing the truth.
Time passed, I grew older, and my gray hair increased. My house improved thanks to the money she sent. Everyone said I was lucky. But how can you be happy eating alone? Every Christmas, I continued to set a plate and silverware for her. There were years when I cooked her favorite beef stew, watching the steam from the broth while my tears fell.
Twelve years is a long time. Finally, I decided to do something I never imagined: go to see her in Korea. I didn’t tell her. For a 63-year-old woman who had never been on a plane or left the country, it was a massive decision.
I asked a neighbor for help with the ticket and documents. The trip lasted hours, and my hands were pale from gripping the seat so tightly. Arriving at the airport, I was confused by the crowds and the language I didn’t understand. I took a taxi to the address my daughter had given me.
It was a two-story house in a quiet neighborhood. I rang the bell; no one answered. The gate wasn’t locked, so I went in. The garden was tidy but cold, with no human noise, no sound of a television.
I approached the front door, my hand trembling as I took the handle. I took a deep breath and pushed the door open. And in that instant, I froze.
The living room was spacious, clean to the point of appearing lifeless. Everything was in order, like a showroom, but with no trace of people. There were no stray shoes, no jackets hanging up, no smell of food or coffee—the normal things of a home.
I called out softly: “Mary…” No one answered. The flowers on the table were plastic, cold to the touch. I went in. The kitchen was extremely clean, without a single grease stain. The refrigerator was almost empty: just a few bottles of water and some withered fruit.
I went up to the second floor. Three doors. The first room had only one bed, the quilt perfectly straightened, with no signs that two people slept there. The closet was full of women’s clothes; there wasn’t a single item of men’s clothing. My chest began to tighten.
The second room was like an office, tidy but looking rarely used. There were no photos, no objects belonging to Kang Jun. It was as if he had never existed
I opened the last room, and my knees went weak. It was full of boxes. Some were open—inside were stacks of cash. Dollars. I touched it, my hands shaking. What is this? I know she sends $80,000 every year. If there is this much money here, where does it come from? Why is it hidden in a locked room?
