Mother-in-law's silk blankets

Late July of 1984 was as unbearably hot as it is these days. Did we really have to get married in such sweltering heat? Six months earlier, my husband and I had simply signed a marriage license at New York City Hall. We couldn't imagine holding a full wedding like other people. But under pressure from both sets of parents, we reluctantly agreed and flew to Los Angeles, where his family lived, to have a ceremony.

The wedding was held at a small church that my sister-in-law attended. We chose it after promising the pastor that we’d study the Bible and get baptized after marriage. My younger sister-in-law, a fashion design major, took care of the dress and makeup. My older sister-in-law, a painter, helped too. My brother-in-law, who studied photography, handled the flowers and pictures. My father-in-law, who had spent his life cooking Western food while working at the northernmost edge of Alaska near the Arctic Ocean, prepared the cake and food with his own hands. I just did as my in-laws told me to. We didn’t even go on a honeymoon.

My parents were thrilled their 30-year-old daughter was finally getting married. They brought two huge immigration suitcases filled with wedding gifts, the traditional yedan. I didn’t even bother to check what was inside. As soon as the wedding was over, I flew straight back to New York.

Over the next 28 years of marriage, I slowly learned what had been in those giant suitcases—through long phone calls with my mother-in-law. Every weekend, she would talk for about an hour, often recalling the horrific moments she had lived through, as if they were scenes from an old film. One of her most frequent stories was about the winter she spent as a war refugee. She always started with how bitterly cold it was.

She told me about the time her young daughter died and she had to bury her in the snow-covered ground. She dug the frozen earth herself, but when she looked back, she realized the ground was too shallow—her child’s pale limbs were still visible above the dirt.

“Mother, how did you go on living after burying your child like that?” I once asked.

“The others were starving. I had to survive for their sake,” she said. Then she went on to describe how she almost died giving birth to my husband, how she used to break ice to wash diapers in the stream, how her hands stung from the cold. She remembers winter more vividly than summer. And she loves warm quilts.

“The silk comforter your mother gave me as part of your yedan—it’s the warmest thing I’ve ever had. I still use it. That silk is the finest I’ve ever seen in my life. And that delicate ramie quilt for spring and autumn, it’s so beautiful I couldn’t bear to use it for years. But lately I’ve been using it, thinking, ‘What’s the point in saving it when I might die any day?’ I stare at the embroidered patterns before falling asleep, they’re just so lovely. Even the thin hemp summer quilt is perfect and cool.”

She didn’t get a mink coat or a designer bag from me—but she still talks lovingly about those quilts I brought when I got married. And every time I hear her say that, I think:

“I guess I did marry into a good family.”

My father, who still lives in Seoul, once told me:
“If you had gotten married in Seoul, we would’ve spent a fortune. These days, if you brought a yedan like that, you’d be laughed at. You’re lucky your in-laws are kind, humble people without greed. Take good care of them.”

As a mother of two sons myself, I think that when the time comes for me to meet my daughters-in-law, I’ll forget yedan even existed. If the couple helps each other and lives happily together, that’s the real gift—and the real act of devotion.