A gloomy visit

“You have to get your father to officially sign over the apartment to you. Get it notarized today. If he passes away, things will get very complicated. Can you do it? Do it today. Don’t delay. Okay?”

I heard a woman’s urgent voice clearly as she talked on the phone. I was sitting in a hospital lounge when she made the call to her husband. After fiddling with her phone and thinking for a moment, she stood up with a confident smile and walked away.

I had come to Seoul because my father was in critical condition. I visited the hospital every day. But since a nurse stayed with him 24 hours a day, there wasn’t much I could do or say. So I found myself listening to the people around me. Most of their conversations were about money—how to take something that doesn’t belong to them and make it theirs.

Living in New York, I was used to dealing with money only through the bank. Hearing these sneaky, greedy conversations made me feel tense and uneasy. Even the nurse tried to charm me. She said that my fother, though he couldn’t eat or move, still liked being treated well. She hinted I should give her money, calling it a “filial duty.” But my father wasn’t even able to know what was happening. Where did my father’s thick wallet and bankbook go? He had always been generous, giving without hesitation from his back pocket.

“Where are we going?”

Every time he was moved for a test, his eyes looked around nervously, afraid of being left alone. His illness was bad, but fear made it worse.

There’s an old saying: “If an elderly person keeps all their money until their last breath, they won’t be afraid.”

But now, children with greedy hearts pressure their sick parents to give them everything while still alive. That’s the sad reality in Korea these days.

I skipped dinner and went back to my lodging. I was so heartbroken from watching my worried father and not being able to speak up that I lost my appetite. I fell asleep. Later, my loud, growling stomach woke me up. I needed to eat. I walked out with an empty belly and headed toward Garosu-gil in Sinsa-dong. The streets were full of young people crowding around shop windows. I could barely walk. I turned onto a side street. Bars stretched on and on. On sizzling iron plates, spicy red food steamed and crackled. Drunk people were laughing and shouting.

There was no place for someone like me. The world belonged to the young and fresh.

Suddenly, the dirty smell of sewage from a manhole filled my nose. My hunger disappeared. I need to leave this dark tunnel full of people chasing money, and go far away.