My entire life, I lived through a screen. It was the only place I ever felt truly alive. My parents were never with me unless the red light of the camera was on, transforming them into the kind, loving parents everyone saw. I looked forward to every broadcast with a desperate anticipation that was both joyous and sad. The screen also connected me with my "friends," who seemed to love me unconditionally, even when their requests grew strange. I didn't care how weird it felt; their attention was all that mattered. My parents encouraged me to talk to them, and I knew that the more friends I had, the more time they would spend with me.
A month after the public celebration of her fifth birthday in October, Min and Seo booked first-class tickets to Dubai. They claimed it was a surprise trip for Byeolbit to see the world and that they would each have to close a business deal. In reality, those deals didn't exist. On the morning of their departure, their carefully laid plan came to a head. Five-year-old Byeolbit fell ill with a fever, a sickness they had secretly orchestrated. With an exaggerated show of regret, they left her behind in their mansion, under the care of two maids and her nanny.
On the plane, as they settled into their seats, Seo turned to her husband with a lovely smile. "When are we going to get rid of that thing? It's taking up too much space."
Min pulled her close, kissing her deeply. "Patience, my love. It's an obstacle, yes, but everything is going perfectly."
Seo returned his kiss, a hungry look in her eyes. "I can always count on you."
A Twisted Understanding of Family
A loving family, they say, is a sanctuary where trust is given freely, sacrifices are made without a second thought, and love is an unwavering constant. A fortress of unity and togetherness.
I know better.
That's a bowl of crap.
The kind of family I understand is one where trust is a fragile thing, kept only as long as it's profitable. Sacrifices are bitter acts, performed with annoyance and regret, always with a price tag attached. And love is a fleeting emotion, a well of sentimentality that is only drawn upon when it's necessary to get what you want. A true family is a collection of separate people, each with their own needs, their own world. This is the only truth I've ever known, and nothing will change it.
"Eomma, eomma, eomma," the child's voice chirped, a persistent song of affection. Seo, engrossed in her phone, ignored the calls, her brow furrowing with each repeated word. The sound, a constant reminder of her facade, grated on her nerves until a wave of frustration broke her calm. She rose, her face contorting, ready to unleash a vicious yell. But just before the words could spill, a sudden flicker of calculation crossed her features, and in a complete reversal, she dropped her phone and knelt with a practiced, loving smile. She reached for Byeolbit, picking her up with a jarring, unpracticed motion. Her long, sharp nails dug into the child's skin, a painful drag against her soft flesh. But Byeolbit did not cry or scream; she simply nestled closer, her own smile genuine and pure. The pain was just a familiar part of being held.
Placing the child to her chest, a motherly smile worn thin with irritation, Seo asked, "My little starlight, what's so important that you need your Eomma's attention?"
The little girl's response was a punch to her facade. "Eomma. My friends said, now that I am six years old," Byeolbit chirped, raising her tiny fingers, "I'll start attending elementary school. So, they said they wanted to know where I'd be going."
'You, a filthy thing, dragged me from my comfort just to ask such a ludicrous question,' Seo thought, forcing the words back down her throat. "Little starlight," she said, her voice smooth and practiced, "you won't be going to such a place. Just tell those friends of yours that you'd be homeschooled by the excellent tutors your parents would provide for you. Okay?"
Byeolbit beamed. "Okay, Eomma. I'll tell them right now."
The child's eagerness was a fresh wave of annoyance. "That's my girl," Seo said, trying to settle her down before she could ask another, equally irritating question.
A Childhood of Watching
I asked my mother why I couldn't go to school. She settled me by her favorite sofa, and as she did, a line of blood from my back, where her nails had bitten into my skin, began to trickle down. "Oh, little starlight," she said, her voice soft but her eyes hard.
"Your parents and you have a responsibility. We are the Han family, and we stand above all, just as the ground you walk on is above the dirt. We can't have you mixing with the dirt beneath you, can we? It would make the soil uncomfortable. You don't want to make them uncomfortable, do you?"
My six-year-old brain could only process the plea in her voice. "No, Eomma," I replied.
"Good, good, good. Now go tell your friends that you'll be homeschooled by excellent tutors. Your Eomma is busy."
As I turned to leave, I heard her whisper, "Soil, huh. I guess you'd be one of them just soon, wished it would be sooner." I didn't understand her words, or the meaning of what she said. The only thing I knew for certain was what I would tell my friends: I was going to be homeschooled.
When I turned eight, my parents started staying out late. They would come home with a sharp, sour smell on their clothes, and their eyes looked funny, like they couldn't really see me. After a while, they began bringing strangers into our house. They all went upstairs together, and then the "games" would start. It was always the same: my mother screaming, my father moving around her, the bed shaking, and no one wearing clothes.
I never understood it, but I always paid close attention because they made me watch. I thought that was what good children were supposed to do. I didn't want to disappoint them.
After more than a year of watching, I finally asked. As my parents and their friends headed upstairs, I said, "Dad, Mom, why do you play those games with your friends? My friends said it's a game only married people who love each other play. But you're not married to your friends, or to the maids, or to the nanny."
My father smiled and patted my head. "Oh, Byeolbit. What your friends told you is only a small part of the truth. The games we play show love, and our love is big enough to share with anyone."
The regular woman with them leaned close, her voice sweet. "Byeolbit, you've watched us so well. Wouldn't you like to play with us, too? It would be fun." Everyone agreed, nodding and smiling at me.
So they took me to the bedroom. Their hands were warm and strange, moving across my skin. I didn't understand it, but I tried to smile because that's what made my parents happy.
I remember seeing their phone pointed at me, recording, while they laughed softly. After a while, my father said we would play more of the game when I was older. I believed him.
"We had so many good times, so many happy memories. Why did they leave?" I turned my head to look at Mr. Sun, for answers.
The words had just left my mouth, and the silence in the room became heavy. It was a fond memory for me, a time when my parents showed me so much love, a time when I got to be with them. But then, it happened.
Without a word, Mr. Sun sprang to his feet, his hand clamped over his mouth. He rushed to the bathroom, and the sound of him retching echoed through the quiet home. I sat there, confused. Why was he so sick from hearing about such a happy memory?
I sat waiting, hugging my knees. I thought maybe I had told the story wrong. Maybe I had forgotten the part where my mother smiled, or my father laughed. But no matter how much I searched my memory, all I could remember was how happy I had been.