Dear 엄마,
I’m writing this letter because I have a lot to say, but I don’t quite have the courage to express them to you yet. As we’re getting older, I’m realizing that life’s too short to not express the way I feel when I feel things. But for some odd reason, I’m just not there yet with our family. Strange how that works. I think I’m just scared of burdening everyone with my feelings. Still, with more time I hope to relay these feelings to you someday.
Lately, I’ve been spending my days sitting around in my thoughts, ruminating on how my life is turning out. I fear that I’m a lazy and selfish person, and it’s tempting for me to just give up on myself and coast along. But inevitably, my thoughts come back to you, and to us, and I remember why I need to get up and keep trying.
From the moment I was born — though I was unaware of it at the time — I only wanted to do what was good for you. To make you proud, I made sure to do well in school and to do whatever you asked. I remember that summer when you made me memorize the times table earlier than the other kids. You left no stone unturned—you posted snippets of that cursed table in every blank space, whether in front of the toilet, on the fridge door, or along the bookshelf. There was no escape, and I hated how persistent you were with it. But when summer ended, I was smarter than everyone else in class. Your eyes lit up with pride and joy whenever I told you about that on our rides home together from school.
At that time, you were a part-time florist, and 아빠 was working full time to provide for us. On the weekends, you’d bring Hae-Young and I along with you on on your thrift store excursions. We’d come home with stacks of books and movies, but you’d rarely buy anything for yourself. You were always putting the needs and wants of others before your own. The one time you made an exception, it was for a cheap little mug which possessed that rustic charm of homemade pottery — tan and brown-colored with rough edges and uneven textures. At the time, I couldn’t understand what you saw in it. It just looked so ordinary. But I remember how happy you looked the next morning, snuggled up with your new mug and drinking tea while watching the TV. Seeing that made me happy too. Then 아빠 came into the living room and made fun of you for it, and you looked so dejected and hurt after. I never saw you use it again, and for that I never forgave him.
You had so much more time and energy back then. I’d often see you painting with watercolor, or watching Bob Ross on the TV and painting along with him. We never had much money, so you used acrylic instead of oil. Even still, you could create such beautiful paintings. I remember how awful I felt when I ruined all of your brand new, expensive watercolor pencils that you had saved up for. I didn’t understand the weight of my actions then, and that memory continues to haunt me.
In 2008, everything changed. You had to become the provider for our family, and I never saw you paint again. 아빠’s car stereo business failed and he didn’t know what to do next. We moved from our big home in Temecula to a dingy little townhome in San Diego. You started to work long, tireless hours trying to make ends meet with our new flower shop. After work, you’d come home to cook dinner for us, then read the bible and pray before falling asleep. How could you have had the time and energy for anything else?
It breaks my heart when you’re too embarrassed to take a picture with us because of the wrinkles around your eyes, or when I see you rubbing the rough callouses on your hands. I’ll never forget the time you gave me your hands with a sad look on your face, saying that a woman’s hands should be pretty and soft. I didn’t know what to say when you told me that. I felt overwhelmed with guilt, and burdened with a sense of urgency to hurry up and succeed so that you can finally stop working so hard. If I could go back, I’d tell you that your hands are beautiful the way they are.
Nothing in this life is promised. You never fail to remind me of that. And that with each passing day, the chance that you or 아빠 might pass away is steadily rising. You had us late after all, and you’re already older than a lot of my friends’ moms. I’m 26 years old now, and I don’t have a career yet. These days, I’m scared of not reaching those milestones that I once dreamed of reaching with you in time, if at all. Like seeing you at my wedding, or meeting my children, or visiting my apartment in a new city as I work a respectable job. More than anything in this life, I’ve longed to give you a sense of quiet assurance and pride; some form of proof to show you that your son whom you raised with so much love and compassion turned out to become a successful, good man.
You make fun of me every year for writing the same things on your birthday and Mother’s Day cards. But really, all I can say is thank you. The image of you entering our doorway with a pile of books in your arms is crystallized in my memory, for it never ceased to fill my heart with joy. Each book that you bought me showed me endless possibilities. Thanks to you, I fell in love with reading and writing, and the world became a beautiful place to me. Even now, when the world feels bleak and scary, I carry this childlike feeling with me and continue to hope for better days: to one day see you relaxing at home on a weekday again, to see you painting with watercolor in a sunlit room again. Until then, I promise to keep trying.
Love,
유진
marginalia 