Ever since I was a child, a sudden, intrusive thought would sometimes cross my mind: “What if my parents were to suddenly pass away?” Whenever it did, my nose would sting, and a profound melancholy would wash over me. That abstract fear crystallized into a harsh reality after I married in 2014. In 2021, my wife was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was an agonizing awakening, a stark reminder that in this journey of life, unwanted farewells can arrive entirely unannounced. Through that ordeal, I realized with absolute clarity just how precious and beautiful it is to simply exist alongside my parents, my wife, and my children today. Thankfully, we caught the cancer early, and she is now fully recovered and thriving. Yet, it was a crucible that profoundly reshaped my perspective. Since then, I no longer postpone shared meals or family trips for a “next time.” Unless it is truly impossible, I have consciously shifted the weight of my life to prioritize the moments I spend with my family.
Just as we had found our rhythm in this reclaimed happiness, in March 2025, my mother was diagnosed with stomach cancer during a routine check-up. She had always harbored a deep aversion to hospitals, rarely taking medicine even when her body ached, hoping things would simply resolve on their own. By the time we found out, it was already too late. Still, I believed I had to try everything humanly possible, just as my wife had overcome her battle. I reached out to the best hospitals in Korea, and fortunately, we secured an appointment at Samsung Medical Center in Seoul the very next day. Despite our desperate efforts and the many twists and turns, her condition deteriorated. Less than three months after that initial check-up, she passed away.
When the very thing I had dreaded since childhood finally became my reality, I thought I would shatter beyond repair. Yet, surprisingly, I navigated her funeral with a calmness that almost made me question my own heart. I once read that when a person is faced with unbearable sorrow, the mind instinctively deploys a defense mechanism, regulating the grief to a survivable level. I don’t know if that is true, but it felt true for me. My mother passed away on June 6th, and our youngest child was born just five days later, on June 11th. Caught in that narrow space between death and life, I was unable to fully mourn her passing, yet unable to fully celebrate the birth of our third child. When we were hesitating about having a late child, it was my mother who encouraged us the most, eagerly promising not to worry because she would help raise the baby. I know she must have felt a profound sorrow and apology as she closed her eyes for the last time. Now, whenever I look at our youngest, my heart aches for her. I can only imagine how desperately she would have wanted to hold the grandchild she had so eagerly awaited.
For over a year since she left us, I haven’t been able to properly grieve or cry out loud. As the head of the household, I had to keep moving forward for my family. But my soul needed a place to lay down this heavy sorrow. I wanted to confess these feelings, to leave a trace of them somewhere in the world, to declare how deeply I love and miss my mother.
My mother was born the second of eight children in an impoverished family. Given only an elementary school education, she had to work as a domestic helper from a young age to support her siblings. That life of survival ingrained a relentless frugality deep into her bones. Married at twenty through a matchmaker to my father—the third son of another poor family—she started her own family with almost nothing. Naturally, raising my sister and me was a constant struggle, a life of endless pinching and saving. Because of this, even after I became an adult, whenever we shared a meal or a drink, she would always look at me with an apologetic smile. I believe that in her final moments, when she could no longer speak and our eyes met for the last time, her gaze was filled with that same lingering apology.
But I want her to know that everything is entirely okay. I feel no sorrow or resentment for what she couldn’t provide financially. Instead, I want to tell her how endlessly grateful I am. It is because of the goodness and unwavering integrity she modeled throughout her life that I grew into a man capable of meeting such a wonderful wife, and raising bright, cheerful, and kind-hearted children.
If there truly is a world beyond this one where we can meet again, I promise to live my life beautifully, righteously, and without regrets. I will live so that when I finally stand before her again, I can tell her everything with a proud smile, and we can spend days and nights laughing and sharing our stories.
