“Mom, it’s your birthday today, right? Do you need anything?”
“Thank you. I don’t want anything to eat or have. Just you listening well makes every day feel like my birthday. Your health and happiness are my gift. Let’s have a meal together when the virus is gone.”
These days, no news is good news. I haven’t seen my two sons at all this year. When we tried to meet, COVID-19 started spreading. Now, the boys call about once a week just to check in.
“Mom, are you okay? What are you doing?”
“I’m busy. I have a lot to do. How about you?”
“We’re watching a Korean drama together. Do you watch any?”
“I haven’t watched any since Autumn in My Heart and All In with Song Hye-kyo. What are you watching now?”
“My Mister.”
“Is it good? I don’t like dramas that are too emotional with predictable stories.”
“This one’s different.”
“Well, it’s good for you to watch so you don’t forget your Korean.”
Korean dramas remind me of someone I knew long ago. He looked pale and depressed, barely living a normal life. He said he stayed inside for months, watching dramas to forget problems with his wife. I still remember his dark room filled with videotapes.
I once rented Autumn in My Heart because a Chinese friend of my kids said it was great. I cried so much, my head hurt badly. Then I got obsessed with All In, lost my appetite, my cheeks sank in, and my life became a mess. My husband looked at me and said,
“You’ve totally gone crazy. Stop watching and go look in the mirror. You look like a ghost.”
But since I always listen carefully when my kids recommend something, I wanted to watch My Mister. I was curious—why do they say it’s different from other dramas? There are 16 episodes. I told myself I would stop if I didn’t like the first one. But it was pretty good. I even started dreaming about the scenes. My daily routine got messy. I just wanted to finish it quickly. But toward the end, it got slow and overly emotional, and I lost interest. I kept watching like it was homework from my kids, but I gave up on the last two episodes.
In the drama, the three men often get angry, shout, and drink soju together, complaining about their lives. They reminded me of Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. Maybe three men make drinking more fun than two? Maybe I should’ve had one more son.
My husband now lives in our Brooklyn studio and only comes home on weekends. He often drinks and chats with the boys, who live nearby. I think of my childish husband as one of the brothers. Let’s say I have three sons. Seeing the three of them having fun without me made me feel like I had everything in the world. I poured myself a full glass of wine, looked at the setting sun, and quietly said,
“Cheers.”
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