and Eun-Mee would live out their lives, Soo-Ja understood, finally, the enormity of her mistake. She thought of that day—that cloudless day—when Yul stood before her on the eve of her wedding and asked her to choose him. If she had said yes, she would be married to Yul and living in this house with him. When Yul asked that single yes or no question—Come with me—and she said no, Soo-Ja did not know what she was saying no to. She did not know the size and weight of the consequences, how life is not set down like train tracks, and you don’t just ride above it. The life she had could not be that different from the one she could have had, she had thought. I am the same person, surely the story unfolds roughly the same way? Each decision she made couldn’t be that important, couldn’t change her life that much, right? Otherwise she’d drown in the multiple possibilities of who she could have been and was not—the Soo-Ja who went to diplomat school and worked in the government; the one who found a post teaching at a school and found another man, neither Yul nor Min; the one who never married at all, and stayed by her father’s side, a happy spinster—wouldn’t all of these women crash and collide, eventually? How could all of these versions exist, three or four for each of us, and then more so, as they intersected? Soo-Ja wondered. How could the world fit so many lives, so many iterations? It couldn’t be that big, it couldn’t fit so much. We’re only given one life, and it’s the one we live, she had thought; how painful now, to realize that wasn’t true, that you would have different lives, depending on how brave you were, and how ready. Love came to her that day—she was twenty-two—and wanted to take her, and she said no.
Why are we asked to make the most important decisions of our lives when we are so young, and so prone to mistakes? Happiness came that day—she knew nothing—and asked her to say yes and she did not. Why did she assume it would come back again, when there were so many others waiting for it to visit?
Stop it, Soo-Ja, she told herself, and she could have, if she had not made the mistake of looking out the window, and seen Yul down in the garden, showing Min around. He looked up and saw her the instant she got to the window, and with his eyes he confirmed everything she’d been thinking. It was not an accusing glance; it was wistful, a half smile on his face. It spoke of memories of things that didn’t happen; full of nostalgia for a life together that they had never shared. She looked away, as if Yul were the sun, and it would hurt her eyes if she kept looking at him. What could she say to Yul? It wasn’t just words she wanted. She wanted him to forgive her—for her cowardice and her fear, for having looked at happiness and turned away from it, afraid it would burn her, like the surface of the sun. She wanted him to know he wasn’t crazy, but that she knew, too, and that in their knowing together they could feel some consolation—that would be something they could share. It was not ideal, not at all, but still, it was warm and neat and it could be pulled out in days of need, like a woolen blanket from a treasure chest.
Soo-Ja then heard Eun-Mee call from the kitchen, and she, like a good guest, headed back to help her.
Eun-Mee poured lemon tea for the four of them in the manner of a schooled hostess, with her back perfectly straight, bending only her knees. She seemed in good spirits, heartily enjoining them to eat petits fours and drink warm tea. Soo-Ja felt for a moment that she’d misjudged her, and that Eun-Mee really did invite Min and her there to express her gratitude. Soo-Ja thought of how she might return the kindness—perhaps send her a box of pears? That feeling, however, quickly dissipated as soon as Eun-Mee opened her mouth.
“I’m so glad I no longer have to sleep in that hotel!” Eun-Mee said, sitting down across from Soo-Ja’s chair.
Min sat next to Eun-Mee, and Yul found himself next to Soo-Ja. The room looked quite luxurious, with sofas upholstered with white Mongolian fur and thick armrests made out of