Page 69 of Tell Me Where It Ends

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.

***