"Minjoo, do you want to go on a picnic?" Eun-ha asked, her voice light, almost hopeful.
"Of course, sister. Where do you want to go?" Minjoo replied, smiling.
"Hangang Park," Eun-ha said without hesitation, her eyes gleaming with a quiet determination.
Minjoo hesitated, her smile faltering. "But, sister, it's winter now. The air will be so cold over there."
Eun-ha glanced at the window, her gaze fixed on the sunlight streaming in. "But I want to go," she said softly. "Look at the weather—it's good today. The sun has risen. Let's go now."
Minjoo sighed, her concern evident, but she didn't argue further. Instead, she began bundling Eun-ha in layers of warm clothing.
"How many clothes do I have to wear?" Eun-ha asked, her voice muffled under the growing pile of scarves and jackets.
Minjoo tightened a button and murmured, "You're unhealthy, sister. You need to stay warm."
Eun-ha didn't argue. She simply stood there, letting Minjoo's hands work with quiet patience. When it was all done, she looked down at herself and chuckled softly. "I look like a walking pile of clothes."
Minjoo smirked, adjusting the last scarf. "Better that than catching a cold," she said, guiding Eun-ha towards the door.
As they stepped into the hall, their mother's voice stopped them. "Where are you going?" she asked, her tone sharp, but her eyes heavy with something unspoken—perhaps worry, perhaps regret.
They didn't answer. Eun-ha simply tightened her scarf, and Minjoo wrapped an arm around her sister's shoulders. Together, they walked out the door, leaving their mother standing in the shadows, the silence of the house wrapping around her like a cold shroud.
---
I know I don't deserve their forgiveness.
What have I ever done to earn it?
I didn't protect them. I didn't shield them from the storms that raged inside this house. I stood by, too weak, too broken, watching as their childhoods were shattered.
When I was young, I thought love could save anything. I thought I had found my forever in him. My parents warned me. They told me, begged me not to go. But I was foolish, so foolish. I believed in him, in his promises, in the way his eyes softened when he looked at me.
Back then, he was kind. He cared for me in ways that made the world seem brighter. He even fell to his knees before my father, begging for their blessing. But my parents refused. "He will break you," they said. "He's not the man you think he is."
I didn't listen. I couldn't.
I chose him. I ran from everything I knew, believing that love would be enough to carry us through. But love doesn't last when it's only one-sided. People change. Hearts harden. And the man I had once loved became a stranger—cruel, distant, and cold.
It wasn't long before I realized my mistake. But by then, it was too late. I couldn't go back. How could I? I was too ashamed to face them, to admit that everything they said was true.
And so, I stayed. I stayed in a house filled with pain, watching as my children suffered for my choices. I wanted to protect them, but I was too weak. All I could do was watch as the light in their eyes dimmed, as their laughter faded into silence.
Eun-ha, my sweet, fragile girl. I see her trying so hard to be strong, to smile as if the world hasn't broken her. But I see the cracks, the weight she carries on her small shoulders. I wanted to give her a way out, to find her a good man who would love her, cherish her, take her far away from this hellish house. But even in that, I failed her.
And Minjoo… oh, Minjoo. She wears her strength like armor, but I know it's only because she feels she has to. She holds everyone together, but I wonder—who holds her?
I wanted to save them both, to give them a better life. But I couldn't. I failed them over and over again.
And I don't blame my son for running away.
How could I?
This house was no home to him, only a place filled with anger, fear, and broken promises. I see it now—how his eyes would dart to the door, how he would flinch at raised voices, how he slowly began to retreat into himself until there was nothing left but silence.
When he left, I was angry at first. Hurt. How could he abandon us? But as the years passed, I began to understand. He was trying to save himself from a life that was devouring us all.
I should've stopped him. I should've held on tighter, begged him to stay. But what right did I have to ask him to suffer with us?
No, I don't blame him.
I only wish I had been strong enough to give him a reason to stay. To make this house a place where he felt safe, where he felt loved. But I couldn't even do that.
Now, when I see them leave without a word, I feel the emptiness of this house swallowing me whole. I don't blame them for walking away. They don't owe me anything.
What right do I have to their forgiveness? What right do I have to even dream of it?
I wasn't a good mother.
I wasn't strong enough.
I don't know if they'll ever forgive me.
But the truth is, I'll never forgive myself.
---
What right do parents have to shatter their children's happiness?
To take their innocence, their trust in the world, and leave them burdened—uncomfortable children in an unforgiving world.
What right did we have to create wounds they never deserved, to carve out pieces of their hearts for our pride, our anger, our selfishness?
How dare we rob them of joy and then expect forgiveness in return?
They will never forgive us, and they shouldn't. Our apologies mean nothing when the damage is already done. Realizing our mistakes doesn't erase the nights they cried alone, the dreams they abandoned, or the scars we etched into their souls.
No amount of regret can restore what we've stolen from them—the life they should've lived, free from pain we inflicted.
We failed them. And the weight of that failure will haunt us forever, in every unspoken word, in every cold silence.
We were supposed to protect them, to love them, and instead, we destroyed them. That truth will linger like a shadow, long after we're gone.
---
Back at the park, Minjoo sat cross-legged on the grass, nibbling on a sandwich. Beside her, Eun-ha gazed at the endless sky, her mind far away, lost in thoughts only she could understand.
The gentle hum of laughter floated through the air—a family, seated not too far from them, enjoying their picnic. Their joy was infectious, the sound of it pure and untainted, a glimpse of something Minjoo had always dreamed of. She found herself staring, her eyes lingering on their smiles, their carefree happiness.
But then her hand froze, and the sandwich slipped from her trembling fingers.
"Minjoo, what's wrong?" Eun-ha turned, concern etched in her voice. But when she followed Minjoo's gaze, her words died in her throat.
There he was. Their father.
Sitting with another family, his face aglow with laughter—a warmth she and Minjoo had never known. He looked so at ease, so full of life, his hand resting tenderly on the shoulder of a young girl who could only be his daughter.
Minjoo's breath hitched, and tears began streaming silently down her cheeks. Her small frame shook as she tried to hold back the sobs clawing at her throat.
Eun-ha stared, her chest tightening with something she couldn't contain—rage, pain, betrayal—all consuming her at once. She felt her body move before her mind could stop it.
Standing abruptly, she grabbed the food in front of her with trembling hands. The laughter of the man who had shattered their family echoed in her ears like a cruel reminder of everything they had lost.
She walked toward him, her steps unsteady but fueled by fury.
And then, without hesitation, she flung the food at him. The contents rained down on his head, staining the facade of happiness he wore so easily.
The woman beside him screamed, her voice cutting through the air like glass. "How dare you?! What kind of vulgar behavior is this?"
A boy, presumably their son, stood up in alarm. "Father, do you know these people?"
Eun-ha let out a hollow laugh, clutching her head as if it might burst from the sheer weight of her emotions. Her voice cracked as she repeated, "Father?"
Her father stood, his face pale, his mouth opening and closing as if searching for words. "Eun-ha," he finally managed, his voice shaky, "I can explain—"
"Explain?" she spat, her voice trembling with bitterness and hurt. "Do I need your explanation?"
Her body swayed, her vision blurring as the world around her tilted. A sudden, sharp pain erupted in her head, and she stumbled.
And then she saw her. An elderly woman approached, her face hardened with fury. Without a word, she raised her hand and slapped Eun-ha's father, the sound echoing like a final judgment.
But Eun-ha couldn't focus. Her body convulsed, and a wave of blood spilled from her lips, staining the ground.
"Eun-ha!" Minjoo screamed, her voice filled with panic and despair as she ran to her sister.
Their father reached out, his voice desperate. "Eun-ha, let me help—"
"Get away from her!" Minjoo shouted, her voice breaking with raw fury as tears streamed down her face. She shoved him back, her small frame shaking with anger. "You don't deserve to touch her! Stay away!"
She knelt beside Eun-ha, cradling her frail body in her arms. "Sister, please," Minjoo sobbed, her voice barely audible through her tears. "Please, stay with me. Don't leave me, too."
Eun-ha's face was pale, her breaths shallow. She tried to smile, but it faltered, her lips trembling. "Minjoo…" she whispered, her voice so faint it barely reached her sister's ears.
Minjoo held her tighter, her tears falling onto Eun-ha's face, mixing with the blood on her lips. Around them, the world faded, their pain and sorrow drowning out everything else.
In that moment, there was no laughter, no family, no park—just two sisters, clinging to each other in the wreckage of everything they had lost.