Like father, like daughter

"Come on, let’s not fight and just enjoy the trip."
That’s what I said as I picked up my sister and her husband in the car at 6 a.m.
"You’re becoming more and more like Dad. You even talk like him!" my sister replied.

Every time I visit Korea, our father insists on taking my sister and me on a trip.
"From now on, I’ll pay for everything. Eat whatever you want. Just don’t fight, and enjoy yourselves."
But no matter how well it starts, small arguments always seem to creep in.

Our father, who had only one son and not a particularly accomplished one, always gets gloomy when his son comes up in conversation.

“What right does a father who failed to raise his son have to say anything?” 

he says, full of regret. But when my sister—who had insisted on marrying someone our father had opposed—tries to speak, he snaps,

“Well, look at your son. Sure, he’s tall. Good for you.”

He always makes these little jabs, even about his grandson. Then he turns to my sister again:
"This old father takes you on trips and feeds you good food, but you’re out there making money and giving it all to God. How about giving just one-tenth of that effort to me?"
Even my patient sister can’t hold back when it comes to religion. She starts to reply, “And what about you—” but bites her tongue and holds it in.

My sister, who’s short in height, married in a hurry right after college. Despite our father’s strong opposition, her husband was tall and handsome. Thankfully, her kids inherited their dad’s height and good looks. But because of that opposition, our father always seemed a bit cold about it.
“What good is being tall? All you do is strain your neck looking up,” he would mutter.

All of us siblings eventually moved to the U.S. As the eldest daughter, my sister had felt it was her duty to stay behind until our father passed, but in doing so, she lost her younger years.
Stronger and healthier than any of us, our father finally told her,
“Honestly, you’d be helping me more by going to a better country like America and living well. So just go.”
His words hit like a knife—and she finally left Korea.

She’s older than me, but when it comes to life in America, I’m the older one. When she first arrived, she’d ask me for help constantly, and though I usually didn’t mind, on tough days I’d lose my temper.
“Sis, you’re always going to early morning prayer—where’s your God now? Why are you clinging to me all the time? Go pray to Him for help!”
And she would say, almost crying,
“You really do sound just like Dad.”
Then I’d feel bad.
“Okay, okay… I get it.”

She had left Korea to escape Dad’s harsh words—only to run into me. I felt sorry for her and helped, but truthfully, I’ve inherited Dad’s sharp tongue. She suffered from my outbursts, and I suffered from helping her get settled. Still, I’m glad she’s here. She reminds me of Mom.
The food she makes tastes just like Mom’s. No matter how much I snap or throw a tantrum, she puts up with me—just like Mom did.

When we look up together at the quiet country sky, stars pour down like they’re welcoming us.
Maybe by taking my sister on this trip, I can truly say I’m sorry for everything.