Doha died suddenly at the age of 54. Many different rumors spread about how she died.
Some men said she was running around trying to collect money she had secretly loaned out, and she got too angry and stressed.
Some women said she was heartbroken over her husband’s affair.
Her own family said it was because of stress from her in-laws.
Her in-laws said she collapsed from pressure to help her Korean relatives settle in America after she sponsored them.
At the funeral hall entrance, two people from her in-laws’ side and two from her own family stood like guards. No one could enter without giving condolence money. Nearby, a big flower wreath from the Sewing Association stood smiling, as if saying, “The dead don't care.” Another wreath from the International Marriage Women’s Association also smiled sweetly. One large wreath with a long red ribbon said “Lee Soon-ja,” looking proud like it came from a former First Lady.
At the back of the hall, a few men stood scanning the crowd. A short man whispered to a tall man next to him.
“Who knows, maybe the woman who borrowed money from Doha is here, just making sure she’s really dead. Let her show her face, we’ll catch her.”
Doha’s husband didn’t know who she had lent money to. They hadn’t spoken in five years. But he had a strong feeling someone would come to check if she was really dead. Even if he suspected someone, there was no proof. Still, he sent some friends to keep an eye out — to honor Doha’s last wish and maybe get the money back.
Doha was born as the second daughter in a poor family. When she failed her middle school entrance exam, her family couldn’t afford a second try.
“Mom, I want to take the second test. I’ll pass this time, I promise!”
“What’s a second test? You’re not smart enough. Stop dreaming and follow me.”
Her mother took her to a sewing factory where she became the fifth helper for the fifth sewing machine. She spent all day hunched over, cutting loose threads from finished clothes. Even after work, colorful threads clung to her clothes as she dragged her tired legs home. She sewed buttons, added labels, and often pricked her fingers with needles. But Doha was fast and skillful. She was soon promoted to using the sewing machine. With her earnings, she supported her older siblings’ school fees and her younger siblings’ academy tuition.
In the early 1970s, there was a man from Gyeongsang Province with a sister who had married a U.S. soldier and lived near LA. She invited her younger brother to the U.S.
“If you’re good at sewing, you can make a fortune in America. Bring a good bride. You learn welding.”
The man didn’t like Doha—she wasn’t very pretty or tall.
“She’s short and plain, but she’s kind, hardworking, and has great hands. If you treat her well, you won’t need to worry about money.”
He couldn’t refuse his sister’s request, so he agreed to marry Doha after meeting her just twice, trusting her factory manager’s recommendation.
Doha’s mother, who depended on her daughter’s sewing money, quickly agreed to a wedding-less marriage registration after hearing they would send money from America. Doha was sent to LA like a package. Just a week after arrival, she was already sewing at a Korean sewing factory in LA. For Doha, America was no different from Korea—still a place of hard work and little freedom.
Her in-laws often bragged as if they had saved her life.
“If you hadn’t met our son, would a factory girl like you have ever seen America? You sent $2,000 to your family? Who told you to do that? Just because you made the money doesn’t mean you can spend it however you like. Be thankful you’re living well in America now!”
Doha was caught secretly sending money to her family and was even dragged by her sister-in-law by the hair.
Her mother, thinking Doha was enjoying a rich life in America, demanded more.
“You went to America and forgot your family! We’re starving here. If you won’t send money, sponsor all of us to come there. We’ll beg on the streets if we must!”
In the middle of these pressures, Doha had two children: Tiffany and Benji. They bought a big house next to her sister-in-law. She put several sewing machines in the garage and worked every day while taking care of the kids. When one machine overheated, she moved to the next. She cooked for her in-laws, stayed home all day, and never learned English. She couldn’t drive. Threads stuck all over her clothes, her hair was messy, and her face pale and sickly. Her husband ignored her, embarrassed by her appearance. She walked quietly between the kitchen and the garage, like a guilty servant. Even the workers under her looked down on her. Only Eunsook would chatter beside her and share her own complaints.
Eunsook had dark skin, big eyes, and a curvy figure. She looked almost Hispanic. After high school, she didn’t do much. In the 70s, Korean-American men often came back to Korea to find pretty wives. One of her brother’s friends came to visit and fell in love with her. They married quickly and moved to LA. Eunsook thought she’d live in a big house and go to fancy parties. Her poor family took out a loan to buy her two expensive designer dresses.
“Oh wow, what a beautiful bride!”
People at the sewing factory said when she arrived.
Eunsook was not only pretty but also sweet and a great cook.
But America wasn’t what she expected. No mansions, no parties. Just weekend BBQs with neighbors and going back to work like a dog on Monday. Her husband, who barely finished technical high school, didn’t speak English well and needed help from his younger siblings. Her father-in-law told her:
“Start learning English. You can’t survive in America without it.”
But her husband replied, “I’ll work at my uncle’s auto shop. He didn’t study but makes more money than my dad.”
The father-in-law then told Eunsook to study instead.
“I’m not smart. I’ll just make a lot of money and live in a big house. That’s all I want.”
Both of them gave up on education.
After six months of doing nothing, Eunsook decided she had to earn money and live her dream life. She went to Doha’s sewing shop. The smell of fabric and dye filled the air. A few workers looked up at her but quickly returned to work, thinking she might be a delivery person. Doha stopped her sewing and stared at Eunsook with a blank face. Threads floated in the air like dust and slowly fell.
“I came here to learn how to sew,” said Eunsook with a bright voice.
All the workers stopped and stared at her. She looked too glamorous to be working there. Her perfume filled the quiet air. Doha looked at her with wide eyes, as if trying to see if she was real.
That’s when Eunsook understood why people said,
“Even if everyone else takes it easy, Doha does the work of five people by herself.”
Eunsook drove to work in an old, broken car that sputtered and rattled. Her husband fixed it at his repair shop and gave it to her as a gift. On weekends, he washed it so clean it shone. Eunsook felt a little happy. She wore a flower dress and sunglasses. She played music and moved to the beat. These drives made her feel she really lived in America.
Sometimes her husband felt happy too. He did not say much. After paying rent, they had almost no money left. But he had no complaints, as long as Eunsook did not nag him.
Eunsook felt annoyed by the sight of her husband in his dirty work clothes, engine oil on his hands, touching her. She snapped at him:
“When will you buy me a house and treat me right? You don’t try to think or earn more. You just lie around like an old chair in this house!”
Her husband answered with a joke:
“I have no time to think. I am pressed down by life, just like an old armchair.”
Eunsook loved his words. On weekends, they enjoyed big barbecues with LA ribs. She thought eating meat was one of the best parts of living in America. Still, she thought she was tricked into this life, chewing over old wounds like meat.
Doha’s Secret Visit to Abort a Baby
Doha was pregnant again. She did not tell her in‑laws. She asked Eunsook to take her to a clinic in Korean Town for an abortion. On the freeway, Eunsook gave advice:
“Why do you suffer so much? You must breathe fresh air, make yourself beautiful, live a bit for you. Who do you earn the money for? You never get respect. If you stay quiet, people treat you like a doormat. You must stand up to your in‑laws. If you want, I help you. You can live alone with your children if you need to. Start saving money in your own pocket. Get a driver’s license. Get citizenship. Then invite your family over. You will be stronger.”
They drove on the coastal freeway. Waves crashed white foam along the shore. For Doha, the sea and sky felt like relief from her painful life—her husband’s distance, her in-laws’ nagging, her sister-in-law’s scolding. She hoped her family in Korea would support her when they came.
When Her Family Came…
Once Doha got citizenship, she invited her family. But things got hard. In America, families who immigrate usually don’t live happy lives together.
Doha’s brother said he wanted to grow mini vegetables like corn and Brussels sprouts. He asked for money to start his business. Her sister wanted to bring her boyfriend from Korea and open a flower shop with a frozen truck. The in-laws started yelling:
“You didn’t do the sewing work and opened citizenship to invite your family. No one told you to do that! We’ll see about that.”
The insults grew. Her sister-in-law almost yanked her hair. The kids cried. Her husband – in pain from the fights – stopped coming home. He found another woman and started a separate household. His parents and sister-in-law sided with the other woman. They kept Doha around because she was the one who made money with sewing. But Doha had another plan—she had a secret savings account.
New Life for Doha
Eunsook quit sewing and became a casino dealer in Las Vegas. She divorced her husband. Doha’s children went to college. Her husband never asked for a divorce. He rarely stayed over. He said he had no choice. He ran a nail salon and his two households.
The in-law fighting stopped with time. Her sister-in-law’s husband died suddenly. She spent insurance money on cruises. Her parents-in-law lost interest in Doha. They got old. Her father-in-law died, then her mother-in-law the next year.
Doha became rich. Her husband came home more often as his nail salon failed. She didn’t talk to him. She managed her workers and took fewer sewing jobs. She learned English little by little. When she felt uneasy, she drove herself to Las Vegas to visit Eunsook. They shopped and ate out. Doha began to live for herself.
Eunsook was popular as a dealer. She had a young boyfriend. She supported his business dreams with her savings.
The Painful Last Request
One day, Eunsook called Doha:
“I was told I have bone marrow cancer. I need surgery. I have no money. Can you lend me some? I promise I will pay you back. Please.”
Doha, tired of money fights, didn’t want any more business with anyone. But Eunsook had been her only comfort. Doha drove her shaky car to Las Vegas and lent her money four years ago.
Later, rumors said Eunsook lied about cancer to get money. She never spoke about the loan again. When Doha asked for it back, Eunsook acted as if nothing had happened. She talked about meeting a new man—a handsome, polite doctor. She said he wanted to remarry. She tried to set Doha up with him. Doha felt hurt:
“Even my friend left me for money. They all needed me for money.”
That night, she drove home and cried. She felt like she failed her life. She pulled over. She was ill, her vision blurred. She wept:
“Life is rough. Life is hunger. Life is death. I only live in winter. Take me. Let me fly away.”
She collapsed. In hospital she was in a coma for a week. Her husband and kids removed life support. At the funeral, her son carried her portrait. Her daughter cried. Many people came to mourn sincerely. Her husband’s mistress stood next to him, looking like his wife. She seemed ready to take over. A crowd of in-law women behind her whispered and laughed with red lipstick like stars.
People walked by the coffin one by one. Eunsook stood in front of it. She tapped its edge with her finger wearing a big pearl ring, as if trying to wake Doha. She studied her lifeless form with sadness. Then she quietly left. Her Chanel bag on her shoulder shone in the sunshine.
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