This Burns My Heart Page 0,118
very long time. I can imagine you are very busy, working in that hotel and raising Hana. It hurts me, sometimes, to think of you working such long hours. It is embarrassing to me, to think that I could not give my daughter a better life. Everything I worked for—the factory, the business—they were so that you could have a comfortable future. It seems to me that I have failed.
It pains me to know that I want to give you more, but I have so little left. All I can give you now is my love, and it seems so insignificant, so inconsequential. My love cannot get you a day off; it won’t pay for a bowl of rice. My fortune is gone now, and so is much of my health. I see friends of mine turn to prayer for comfort—and drink, too, which you know I have always been fond of—but I want to tell my friends not to fear what lies ahead. I am not afraid of dying—I am only afraid of the hurt it may cause those I leave behind. If something happens to me, cry, but do not cry too long; mourn, but do not mourn too much.
Know that I count myself lucky that I have had so much love in my life—from your mother, your brothers, and from you. You especially—who keeps running away from me. But I will always find you, no matter where you go. I will always be a part of your life. I will always care for and protect you.
Your loving father
Soo-Ja was sitting on her father’s old bed, looking at photograph albums, when she saw her mother appear by the doorsill. Soo-Ja’s mother had always seemed old to her, even when she was younger. Now that she was a grandmother, she seemed to have finally fit into the role she’d waited for all her life. She’d been wearing the same outfit recently, almost like a uniform—heavy, padded brown pants held down by white socks, and a knitted green vest with white buttons.
“Why did you leave that money on my dresser?” asked Soo-Ja’s mother.
“It’s for all the phone calls I’ve been making to Seoul.”
“That’s more than just for phone calls to Seoul,” said Soo-Ja’s mother, entering the room. Soo-Ja moved aside slightly, so her mother could sit on the bed. “Phone calls cost a lot less than that.”
“It’s all right, Mother,” said Soo-Ja. “You and I both know I owed Father a lot of money. And I will send you more, every month.”
Soo-Ja’s mother squinted at her daughter, as if trying to read her. “Are you still torturing yourself about your father’s loan to old Nam Lee?”
“How can I not? Father living here. Losing all his money. It was my fault.”
“No, Soo-Ja. Your father lost everything because he drank so much. He’d come home, and relatives would ask for money, and he’d give it to them. His brother once stole his signature stamp and used it to fleece one of his bank accounts. Some other scoundrel took money that your father meant to use to build a school, and ran out of town. The money he lost because of you was relatively little.”
Soo-Ja did not reply at first, as she felt the blood drain from her face. She began to feel herself crack open; that detail of her life had long been as much a part of her as her arms and legs. “But I always thought that he had ruined himself because of me.”
“Your father let you think that,” said Soo-Ja’s mother, with a sigh. She produced a bag from under the bed; it was filled with dried rolls of mugwort and incense. As Soo-Ja watched, her mother picked up one roll of dried mugwort and pressed its end against her finger, while lighting the other end with an incense stick. By the time she pulled the incense away, the heat had made the mugwort glue itself on her finger.
Soo-Ja breathed heavily, starting to lose her bearings. “Why did he do that? Do you have any idea how horrible I’ve felt all these years? Do you know how much guilt I felt, every day?”
Soo-Ja’s mother reached for another roll of mugwort and placed it on her index finger. The smell of incense filled the room.
“You’re so ignorant sometimes, it hurts my ears,” said Soo-Ja’s mother. “Behind his tough facade, your father was a cub. And he was terrified of losing you. You had just gotten married. He needed something to