"Did your mother kill herself?"
I was shocked when a friend from Seoul said this. She said she had heard it from someone in the neighborhood and waited a long time before bringing it up.
I didn’t see my mother when she passed away. Every time I called the house in Seoul, they said she had gone to the temple. One day, my cousin in LA told me something seemed wrong at the Seoul house and suggested I check in. I had a strange feeling and called again. After I asked many questions, my father finally told me—my mother had passed away two months ago.
She was gone. And I didn’t even know for two whole months. I couldn’t believe I would never see my mother again—the one who loved me so much and never yelled or hit me. I cried in the bathroom every day. Three years later, after I had my first child, I slowly began to heal. But now someone was saying my mother died by suicide? I still dream of her, wandering from one temple to another.
"You weren’t there when your mom died, and they only told you after two months. Maybe there’s something you don’t know?"
"Don’t say such a terrible thing!" I wanted to shout, but then I suddenly remembered the white ambulance driving away.
A couple with a daughter lived on the third floor of our building. They argued all the time. We often heard things breaking, the woman screaming, and the child crying. Then the man would slam the door and leave, and the woman would cry quietly.
"My husband wants to leave me for another woman. I want to die,"
she once said. My mother used to comfort her, and I would listen quietly from the side.
One day, coming home from school, I saw people gathered in front of our building. A white ambulance was parked there, and the door to the third-floor apartment was wide open. I was curious and went inside. I had always imagined what the apartment looked like because of all the noise. Inside, I was shocked. There were fresh red blood stains on the wall. Handprints smeared along the wall showed she had tried to stop herself from dying. She had closed the window, turned on the gas, and taken her own life.
A short time after her death, her husband walked around in front of the building smiling, holding hands with a woman with makeup. Later, I heard from adults that he started a new life with that woman.
I also remembered asking, “What happened to the little girl who used to cry in the hallway when her parents fought?”
It’s amazing that people still talk about what happened nearly 40 years ago. But it’s even more shocking that people mixed up the third-floor woman’s suicide with my mother on the fourth floor. As a child, I loved reading mystery novels and wanted to be a detective. I used to watch and get involved in stories of neighbors and relatives. That helped me avoid getting caught up in gossip spread by the neighborhood ladies.