My name is Theresa and I am sixty-three years old. I have been a widow since I was young and I cried with my only daughter, Mary Lou, completely alone. She was intelligent, sweet and beautiful. Everyone said she had a great future. And it seemed so.
In the 1970s, I met Kang Jun, a Korean man almost every year older than her. I objected, not out of prejudice, but because of the age difference and distance. But my daughter was third. She had a determination in her eyes that I couldn't change.
We got married in a simple ceremony. Later, he went to South Korea. At the airport, I hugged him and cried. I cried too, but silently. I thought he would come back in a few years. He never did. A year passed. Then two. Then five. I stopped asking. He just kept carrying the money: each year, exactly eighty thousand dollars, with a brief message: "Mom, take good care of yourself. I'm fine." That word—good—was what worried me most. Once we had a video call. He was still handsome, but his eyes weren't the same anymore. Always priced. Always distant. The question of why he wouldn't come home. He remained silent and then said: "I'm very busy, Mom." I didn't ask again. Sometimes, mothers become cowards out of fear of hearing the truth.
Time passed. My house improved thanks to the money he sent me. Everyone said it was lucky. But how can you be happy eating alone every day? Every Christmas, he prepared a dish for her. He cooked his favorite stew and cried silently. Sweet years. It's a long time. Finally, I made a decision: I'm going to Korea. Don't say anything. For a woman of six and three years who had never been out of the country, it was madness. But I bought the ticket with trembling hands and went.
I arrived and took a taxi to your house. A two-story house, quiet, very quiet. The garden was beautiful, but lifeless. I knocked on the door. No one answered. It wasn't locked. I went inside. The house was clean, very clean. There were no signs that a man lived there. Not a trace of men's clothing. Not even the taste of food. I went upstairs. One room with women's clothes. Another like an office, in case you don't use it. And the last one… I was speechless. Boxes, so many boxes, full of cash. I was blank. At that moment, you opened the downstairs door.
"Mommy".
CONTINUE READING...>>
To see the full cooking instructions, go to the next page or click the Open button (>) and don't forget to SHARE it with your friends on Facebook.
