Happiness and misery waiting in the corner

“Ta-ta-ta, ta-ta-ta.”
In the early morning, I heard the sound of soldiers’ boots running in the distance.
“Tat-tat-tat, tat-tat-tat.”
The sound grew louder, coming closer. Then I felt something hot and heavy pressing down on me. I opened my eyes wide. A fiery red sun, glowing orange, was burning just outside the window.

“Fire! Fire!”
I heard people shouting outside. I jumped up. From the second-floor window, I saw people waving their hands, screaming for us to come out. I turned toward the door—red flames were already crawling down the hallway toward the room.

Without thinking, I grabbed my three-month-old baby who was fast asleep. I wrapped him in my coat and ran out in just my underwear. It was the winter of 1988. I had gone to Seoul to show off my chubby newborn son, and this happened.

Shaking with fear, I stood among the crowd holding my baby, watching my childhood home burn to the ground. My legs were like burnt tree stumps, weak and trembling. I handed the baby to someone nearby and ran to find my father, who lived close by. He was in his 70s then. I didn’t know how to tell him—what if he collapsed from the shock? Tears streamed down my face.

“Dad!”

I banged on the door. When he saw me standing there, he instantly sensed something terrible had happened.

“Dad, the house is on fire!”

“Where’s the baby?”

“I left him with someone.”

“Then it’s okay.”

He calmly zipped up his thick coat, put on his hat, and slowly, finger by finger, slipped on his gloves.
“Dad, please hurry! The house is burning—there’s no time!”
“There’s no need to rush. Me running won’t stop the house from burning. In times like this, rushing makes things worse. And don’t cry. It’s too early in the morning for tears.”

The house had burned down to its frame. Blackened beams, white icicles hanging from frozen water, and the muddy ground made it feel like looking into a dark, cold cave. Seeing my father silently stare at the ruins broke my heart.

Later, people from the insurance company came. To avoid dirtying their shoes, my father prepared brand-new Nike sneakers and work gloves for them. But in the end, they said we would barely get any compensation. Back then, insurance rules were vague and unfair.

My father didn’t seem surprised or upset.

“Dad, what are we going to do now?”

“You take the baby and go back to the U.S. There's nothing you can do here. What helps me the most is for you to live your life well where you belong.”

And just like that, my father rebuilt the house on the same burned land.

Years later, I asked him,
“Dad, back then, with the house burning down—how could you take your time putting on your hat and gloves?”
He laughed and said,
“I didn’t want burning pieces of the ceiling falling on my bald head.”

Then he added,
“In life, misfortunes will always be waiting for you. But don’t let them get you down too much—
because happiness is also just around the corner, waiting for you. But don’t be overly happy either, because misfortune will be waiting around the next corner.”