Chapter1-1996

The winter that year was exceptionally cold. My fingers, wrapped around a small tangerine, had turned icy blue. In our house, a single tangerine was enough to count as a meal. On the table, a few peeled tangerines, bought from the market by my mother, sat in a small pile. The three of us—my mother, father, and I—ate them sparingly, savoring each bite.

My mother peeled one absentmindedly and placed it in her mouth. I, on the other hand, gripped mine tightly, my fingertips turning yellow from the pressure, before hesitantly taking a bite. It was so sour that tears welled up in my eyes.

We lived in a tiny, single-room space inside a small corner store, located in a poor, rural town on the outskirts of South Korea. Calling it a "room" was generous—it was barely big enough for one person to lie down comfortably. The floor was covered in old, yellowed linoleum, but in many places, it had been gnawed away by rats, exposing the cold cement beneath. At night, the sound of rats scurrying along the walls filled the air, their squeaks echoing through the cramped space. The wallpaper was stained with mold, and the damp air carried a stale, musty odor.

But what I hated the most was the public restroom.

Our home didn't have a bathroom. My parents ran the small shop, using its tiny storage room as our living space. There was barely enough room to place a small gas stove, let alone a bathroom. That meant every time I needed to relieve myself, I had to step outside—no matter how cold or dark it was.

In winter, the journey felt even longer and harsher. The wind would cut through my thin clothes like a knife, and the frigid air would sting my cheeks. At night, cockroaches would scurry across the bathroom floor. Each time I opened the door, my heart would drop, and I'd rush to finish before dashing back outside.

"Sena, wake up."

My mother's voice. Even in my dreams, I could hear it. I opened my eyes instantly.

I wished I could wake up in a warm, clean bed, wearing fresh clothes, feeling safe and loved. But reality was far from that dream.

Instead, my mother tossed a pair of worn-out stockings and a navy blue dress onto the floor in front of me. The stockings were tattered, with dark stains around the knees. The dress was oversized and loose-fitting, as if someone had thrown it away.

"Put it on."

I said nothing as my mother's rough hands pulled me into the clothes. There was no mirror in our house, so I couldn't even see what I looked like. All I could do was clench my fists, stare at my feet, and imagine how pathetic I must have looked.

I did not want to go to kindergarten.

"Mom, can I skip today?"

"What?" My mother's eyes flashed with anger. "You little brat! Since when do you get to talk back to me?"

It happened in an instant. A sharp slap landed on my cheek. Heat rushed to my face.

Tears burst from my eyes as I stammered.

"I-I'm sorry…!"

My mother glared at me before lighting a cigarette. She took a slow drag and exhaled the smoke in a long sigh. That was when I knew—I had to endure today, just like every other day.

I searched for the note my father had left.

"To my beautiful daughter, Sena. I hope you wake up from sweet dreams and have a happy day filled with laughter. Love you. Bboo-bboo~ (Heart) - Dad"

My father delivered newspapers early in the morning, always leaving before I woke up. But every day, without fail, he left behind a small note for me. It wasn't much—just a few words scribbled on the back of an old calendar page—but to me, it was the most precious thing in the world. Sometimes, he even drew tiny doodles of giraffes and bears in the margins.

It was time to leave for kindergarten.

I heard the sound of a motorcycle engine starting outside. I quickly ran out the door. The cold leather seat stung my thighs as I climbed onto the bike.

"Sena, try not to cry today, okay?"

My father positioned me in front of him on the motorcycle and started driving. Though I was wrapped in his embrace, the freezing wind still bit at my face. I felt humiliated.

My father didn't even own a helmet. He had picked up this old, beat-up motorcycle from somewhere, using it every morning to deliver newspapers before rushing home to take me to school. Thinking about it now, it was incredibly dangerous—placing a six-year-old at the front of a motorcycle without any protection.

But we had no choice. We were too poor to afford anything better.

"Dad, when will we get a car?"

"Just a little longer, sweetheart. When I save up more, we'll get one, okay?"

I didn't answer.

All the other kids arrived at kindergarten in warm, cozy cars. But I clung onto the vibrating motorcycle, barely keeping my balance. I couldn't even take the kindergarten bus like the others.

My mother never cared enough to take me, and by the time my father finished his morning newspaper route, the bus had already come and gone. That's why I always arrived at school riding my father's old, unreliable motorcycle.

The moment we reached the kindergarten, I jumped off and ran inside. But I couldn't escape the eyes of my classmates.

"Ew, she came on that old motorcycle again!"

"Look at her stockings! They have holes in them!"

"She's so dirty. Don't go near her!"

I stayed silent. My hands trembled slightly.

Even the kindergarten teacher seemed to dislike me. She never let me sit with the other kids. I always ended up in the corner, alone. No one ever responded when I spoke. I was an outcast. My name was written on a small name tag placed on the colorful desks, but all I did was sit quietly, tracing the letters with my fingers.

But the scariest part wasn't school.

It was going back home.

My mother always hit me, without reason. That day was no different. The moment I stepped through the door, she shoved me against the wall.

"Because of you, my life is ruined!"

"I-I'm sorry! Please…!"

"Shut up, you brat!"

Another slap landed on my cheek. I should have been used to it by now, but I wasn't. I was still scared. I was still terrified of that moment—when her hand would strike me, when the burning pain would spread across my face, when I had no choice but to endure it all.

I was always scared.

And so, I did what I always did. I got down on my knees, pressed my hands together, and sobbed. Even when I had done nothing wrong, I begged.

My father was never home when this happened.

But then again, could we even call it a "home"?

I was always the small, frail, dark-skinned, hungry, and timid child.

I was always the unloved one.

It was the winter of 1996.

I was only six years old.

And of course, back then, I had no way of knowing.

I had no idea how much my life would change.

I had no idea what kind of story my life was about to tell.