Rain or shine, I walked through Riverside Park on Manhattan's Upper West Side as I always did. One day, a friend texted me an Instagram photo of gejang—Korean soy-marinated raw crab—calling it one of New York's seasonal delicacies.
"Don't you like gejang? I've been craving crab lately."
Her message instantly brought back a memory of my father and his unforgettable gejang.
The moment I stepped into my parents' house in Seoul, my father opened the refrigerator door and, as if someone might overhear us, whispered conspiratorially,
"Do you know what's in there? Go ahead—guess."
"What is it? It looks like a kimchi container."
I took out the large container and lifted the lid. Fresh crabs lay submerged in dark soy sauce, their white bellies and claws peeking through the rich brown marinade. My mouth immediately began to water.
"Wow! You made all of this? I was actually looking forward to eating gejang while I was in Seoul."
"I know how much you love it. I figured you couldn't get anything like this in America, so I had it made just for you. Eat as much as you want. But only when the housekeeper isn't here. If she finds out, she'll finish every last crab. The minute something delicious goes into the refrigerator, it mysteriously disappears. I can't exactly tell her not to eat it—that would be too petty."
"So you made all this without her knowing?"
He smiled.
"If your mother were still alive, she'd have cooked everything you ever wanted." His voice softened. "A woman selling fresh crabs happened to pass by, so I bought every crab she had left. Then I even paid her a day's wages to marinate them for me. These are for you—and only you. Promise me you won't tell the housekeeper."
I laughed.
"She probably already knows. She cleans the refrigerator. Besides, how am I supposed to hide this much gejang from her? And there's no way I can finish all of it."
"Just do as I say." He waved his hand impatiently. "Last time you came to Seoul, I tried so hard to get you to eat dog meat, but you wouldn't touch it. The housekeeper ended up eating every bite. Wait until she comes to clean later—you'll be shocked at how much weight she's gained. I'm trying to fatten you up, but she keeps eating all the good food instead. This time I outsmarted her. I want you to put on some weight before you go back to America. You're far too skinny. How can you possibly survive studying in tough old New York looking like that? Don't worry about anything while you're here. Just rest, eat well, and take care of yourself."
Lost in the memory of that conversation from my graduate-school days, I kept walking until I reached the entrance to the park near my apartment.
Something hanging from the branch of a tree caught my eye.
It was a small woman's handbag, dangling gently from a low branch. Someone must have left it behind only moments earlier after resting in the shade.
Should I keep walking? Or should I wait?
As I hesitated, a story my high school friend, Nam Sunhee, had once told me came rushing back. Without thinking any further, I decided to do exactly what she had done.
While waiting for the owner of the handbag, my thoughts drifted back to my father once again.
Honestly, it would have been much easier if he had simply taken me to a good gejang restaurant a few times. Instead, he had gone through all the trouble of preparing an enormous container of gejang and insisting that I eat it in secret whenever the housekeeper wasn't around. Before long, I found myself worrying more about her feelings than enjoying the food.
She was far too sharp not to know what was hidden in the refrigerator. In fact, I suspected she was patiently waiting for me to return to New York so she could have the leftover crabs all to herself after they had soaked even longer in the soy sauce.
I wanted to eat more to honor my father's love, but I simply couldn't eat as much as I had when I was younger.
One day, my father left for his country house with his girlfriend, and the housekeeper decided to take the day off as well.
The empty house suddenly stirred another memory.
It reminded me of Sunhee—the friend who had once told me the story about the lost handbag, and who happened to love gejang just as much as I did.
Sunhee and I were not only classmates throughout middle and high school—we were also relatives. Her paternal grandmother and mine were identical twins. Her grandmother had married into the Nam family, while mine had become part of the Lee family. By Korean standards, we were close enough to be considered family. I knew my father would be delighted if he heard that Sunhee and I had shared the gejang together.
I stood staring at the large container of marinated crabs for a while before picking up the phone. Knowing how much she loved gejang, I invited her over.
She arrived almost immediately.
"Wow! That's a lot of gejang!"
We sat down with bowls of steaming white rice and became so absorbed in sucking every bit of sweet flesh from the crab shells that we hardly exchanged a word.
As I watched soy sauce splatter across Sunhee's fair, delicate face without her caring in the least, I found myself wondering, Why had I kept someone so genuine at arm's length? The vague resentment I had carried toward her for so many years quietly began to dissolve.
After eating her fill, Sunhee—so elegant and poised in everyday life—flopped onto the floor with complete abandon and began telling me a story.
"The other day, I was walking home when I noticed a small handbag sitting on a bench in my neighborhood. I wasn't sure what to do, but I decided to wait until the owner came back. After a long time, no one showed up. I looked inside to see if there was any contact information, but all I found were some keys and a little cash. Then I thought, 'Whoever owns this bag is bound to realize the keys are missing and come back.' So I kept waiting.
"Sure enough, after a while I saw a woman running toward the bench in a panic. I knew immediately she had to be the owner. At first I almost waved the bag at her, but then I thought I'd better wait until she actually asked for it."
"Excuse me... have you happened to see a small handbag?"
"Do you mean this one? I've been waiting here for you to come back."
"Oh, thank goodness! Thank you so much!"
As I listened, I couldn't help thinking, Sunhee really is kind-hearted—and clever. No wonder she was class president for six straight years.
Yet before I had ever taken the time to know her, I had already decided I didn't like her because of her mother.
Her mother, an elementary school principal, was constantly coming and going from the school, wielding considerable influence over teachers and administrators. Her father was an executive at a large corporation. My father, on the other hand, was a businessman, and my mother was an ordinary homemaker.
What I hadn't realized then was that although Sunhee and I appeared to be traveling on the same railway line, our lives had already switched onto different tracks long before we truly came to know each other.
Other than our shared love of gejang, we seemed to have nothing in common, and it was I who had pushed her away first.
Sunhee was everything I was not. She was tall, graceful, and strikingly fair, with an air of quiet elegance. For six consecutive years, she served as class president—not merely because of her mother's influence, but because she possessed a natural ability to lead. Everyone admired and followed her.
I, on the other hand, had never once held a leadership position. The only responsibility I had ever been given was keeping the accounts for the classroom beautification committee, and I managed to lose all the money. My father had to repay it for me—a humiliation I never forgot.
At family gatherings, relatives showered Sunhee with praise while I faded into the background, almost invisible.
She entered one of Korea's prestigious women's universities. I failed the first round of college admissions and ended up enrolling in a coeducational university through the second-round admissions process.
From that point on, our lives drifted even farther apart.
After graduating from college, Sunhee quickly secured a teaching position at a private middle school, thanks in large part to her parents' connections.
My father, a merchant with no influential network, couldn't open doors for me. I spent months wandering without a job before realizing that if I wanted a future, I would have to build it myself. I devoted an entire year to preparing for the civil service examination and, fortunately, earned a position teaching at a public middle school in Dongbu Ichon-dong, not far from my home.
Around that time, I heard that Sunhee was busy dating a well-connected young man through introductions arranged by her mother.
I wanted that kind of romance too. I wanted to fall in love, marry, and begin a family.
But perhaps because I was short and plain-looking, men rarely approached me.
One physician I met through a matchmaker bluntly told my family that the marriage would only be "balanced" if I brought an apartment as part of the arrangement.
One day my father looked at me seriously and asked,
"Would you rather marry a doctor by giving him an apartment... or use that money to study abroad?"
"I'd rather study abroad."
A smile spread across his face.
"I thought you'd say that. Besides, Americans don't care nearly as much about a woman's height. Who knows? Maybe the person meant for you is waiting somewhere in America. And even if you never marry, so what? Live your life freely."
Not long after we shared that meal of gejang, I received Sun-hee's wedding invitation. She was marrying a man from a distinguished family—a graduate of prestigious schools who worked for one of Korea's largest corporations.
Why hadn't she mentioned her upcoming wedding while we sat together eating gejang? Had we spent the entire afternoon talking only about the lost handbag? Then again, I hadn't told her much about my first semester in New York, either. Looking back, perhaps we both sensed that our lives were already moving in such different directions that there was little point in talking about the roads that no longer crossed.
My father knew how uncomfortable I felt at family gatherings, yet he insisted that I attend her wedding.
"You have to go," he said.
The ceremony, held in a grand hotel ballroom, was magnificent. I quietly slipped into a seat in the very last row, trying not to draw the attention of our relatives. The bride and groom looked as though they had descended from heaven—a picture-perfect couple, radiant beneath the chandeliers.
When the ceremony ended, I turned to my father.
"Dad, I have somewhere else to be. I don't think I'll stay for the reception."
He seemed to understand exactly how I felt. Without saying much, he pressed a handful of money into my hand and told me to go meet my friends and enjoy myself instead.
In my mind, Sunhee was always striding confidently ahead with her long legs, her elegant bearing, and her luminous face, while I remained where I was, taking short, hesitant steps that never seemed to carry me very far.
While I wandered through New York as a single woman trying to find my place, Sunhee was raising a son and a daughter with the help of her retired mother.
I married much later than she did, and even after my marriage, four years passed before I finally had my first child.
While I struggled to raise my child largely on my own, I heard that Sunhee had already bought an apartment in Gangnam and was steadily climbing the professional ladder. Later came more news: her son had become a physician, her daughter had passed the bar examination, and eventually Sunhee herself became a school principal, just like her mother.
Everything in her life seemed to unfold effortlessly.
Mine always seemed to require a long detour.
There is a saying: "Sometimes the wrong train takes you to the right destination."
I often clung to those words.
Perhaps if I endured disappointment without giving up, if I simply kept going, I would someday arrive somewhere I had never imagined. Perhaps the unfamiliar road would lead me to unexpected people, unexpected joys, and a destination far better than the one I had originally hoped for.
Holding on to that fragile hope, I fought with everything I had, refusing to remain where I was or surrender to despair.
Yet life in New York only grew more exhausting the harder I struggled.
One day, I underwent a CT scan as part of a kidney examination.
Before the procedure, the nurse asked whether I had ever experienced an allergic reaction to contrast dye—itching, hives, facial swelling, or difficulty breathing.
"I've never had contrast before," I answered. "I don't know."
The scan had barely begun when my ears and throat started itching intensely.
Suddenly the room became tense.
A nurse rushed out to call the doctor. Moments later another nurse and a physician hurried in. It felt as though the right side of my throat was slowly closing.
As the doctor asked me questions, one nurse remained at my side, checking my blood pressure over and over again.
It kept climbing.
At the same time, my throat tightened even more.
The sensation spread from the right side of my throat to the left, as though a heavy metal clasp were slowly locking around my airway.
I gasped for breath.
A nurse urged me to drink some water, but I couldn't even swallow my own saliva.
Another physician rushed in and injected me with Benadryl.
My husband was called.
I was transferred onto an emergency stretcher and hurried to the emergency room.
At that moment, one thought quietly entered my mind.
So this is how death comes.
Strangely, I wasn't afraid.
Instead, an unexpected calm washed over me.
Perhaps it wouldn't be so terrible to die.
Perhaps it would be easier than continuing to struggle through all the burdens and disappointments of life.
I simply let go.
My body relaxed.
My mind grew light, as though I were floating on a cloud.
Slowly, gently, my consciousness drifted away.
As my fingers absentmindedly brushed against the crisp white hospital sheets, I slipped into a deep, peaceful sleep.
As consciousness slowly returned from that sweet, dreamlike oblivion, I found myself wishing I would never wake up.
Death had been far gentler—far sweeter—than I had ever imagined. It was peaceful.
But in the end, I opened my eyes.
I had returned to the world, where life once again demanded that I confront its endless worries, its constant tensions, and its endless compromises. What I dreaded most was not death itself, but having to step back into that exhausting reality. That was the most honest truth I could admit to myself at the time.
I sometimes wonder about Sunhee.
Is she still as happy as she seemed all those years ago? Has her life been so full of happiness that she still longs to live forever?
Standing at the threshold of death, perhaps what I finally let go of was not life itself, but the comparisons and prejudices that had quietly bound me for so many years.
When I woke, the world had not changed in the slightest.
Perhaps it was never the world that needed to change.
Perhaps it was I.
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