Midsummer night's Dream

Steam rose up into my face as I stirred the hot rice with the rice paddle.
“Dinner’s ready!” I called out to my husband.
I placed some black beans in a small dish and cut up some kimchi for a larger one.
“Come eat~” I called again.
I heard him moving around, but he didn’t come. I sliced the seaweed, set the bubbling soybean paste stew on the table.
“Are you eating or not?!”

My husband finally came, lifted the lid off the stew, then slammed it down.
“You didn’t even cook anything special—why are you yelling like that?”
“Yelling? How many times do I have to call you? Can’t you just come on your own for once? Can’t you help, even once? You talk about cooking, but do you even know what you’re eating? Chicken or pork, it’s all the same to you!”

“What exactly did you do that you’re yelling?”

That hit me like a blow to the chest. What have I done in our 27 years of marriage? I’ve always been busy, but now that I think about it, I can’t remember anything specific. Just meals, laundry, and cleaning. Some of my friends run businesses and make money. Others became famous artists, doctors, or professors. And me? I raised two kids, but that’s something almost every mom does. I can’t even say I did it better than anyone else.

My husband was right. I’ve done nothing. Nothing worth pointing to, even at this age. I’ve spent my life chasing after something, holding tight so I wouldn’t lose it, and in the end, looking down at my empty hands. I barely slept. Just as I dozed off, his words echoed in my mind again—“What did you even do?”—and I lay wide awake.

I remembered crawling into my mom’s bed as a child, snuggling into her familiar scent. The sound of scissors from the taffy seller, the voices of vegetable and fish vendors calling, “Fresh mackerel and saury~” from the sunny window… Those were the days I didn’t have to worry about meals. When the street noises faded, I would fall into a deep, peaceful sleep. Now, tears soaked my pillow.

After leaving the old brick bathhouse at the end of the alley, I walked toward the main road. The breeze felt good on my face, and I hummed a tune as I walked. My face, red from scrubbing, looked back at me in a shop window as I applied heavy makeup. I tried on outfit after outfit, checking the clock nervously. No time left. Leaving the messy room behind, I slipped on my tallest heels.

At 3 p.m.—an awkward time to begin or end anything—I walked into Apple Café across from Yeongnak Church in Jeodong. The man I was waiting for never showed up. Just a little longer. Just a bit more, I told myself. But outside, it had already grown dark. My new heels dug painfully into my heels. My whole body trembled with sadness.

How strange... I’m married. I have a husband. So why was I waiting so desperately, like a single woman, for another man? Am I alone again? Startled, I opened my eyes. My husband was snoring beside me. Tears welled up as I looked out the window. The laundry I hadn’t brought in after yesterday’s fight fluttered in the breeze, almost as if it were waving at me.

I let out a long sigh. Steam rose again as I scooped fresh rice into bowls. And this time, I called gently,
“Honey, dinner’s ready.”