My Father and My Confession
Whenever someone asks me what kind of person my father was, I simply respond that he was a ‘normal’ father. In truth, I have never lived as the daughter of any other father, so I don’t really know what ‘normal’ means, but it’s a convenient answer to give. In reality, my father wasn’t one of those overly doting ‘daughter-crazy’ fathers, nor was he someone who gave up much of his life to raise his daughters. He was just a pretty decent father who tried to support for the family. He passed away four or five years ago, so what’s the point now of expressing any lingering grievances or speaking words tinged with resentment? Yet, the wounds I received from him remain deeply etched in my heart. I can say, now it’s more of the scars than the wounds, because the discharge has all come out and it’s healed.
My father was a typical reticent man from Gyeongsang-do, but because he had three daughters, he didn’t hold onto patriarchal attitudes. Perhaps because he hoped his daughters would be treated well by men outside, he often helped with household chores. However, the truth is, he only started helping around the house after his business, which he started after leaving his company, failed due to the aftermath of the IMF crisis. Back when I was a child, my father was an ordinary business man, and it seemed his salary was pretty good compared to others of his ages. What did I know as a child, but I assumed this because he often reminisced about those days. As much as he earned well, he wasn’t very domestic. The father I remember from my childhood was someone who, when he stayed home only for the Sundays, always seemed exhausted and sleeping. I constantly had to pester him to play with me. I think he tried to make up for not being able to spend time with me by giving me gifts occasionally. At that time, my father lived with his in-laws. My parents used to joke that I was born to ‘devour’ them. Despite his decent earnings, they lived with my maternal grandparents because when I was born, I had to undergo a life-threatening surgery, and they had to sell their newlywed home to cover the medical costs. With no other choice, they moved into my maternal grandparents’ house, where they rented out the first floor. My maternal grandparents didn’t get along, and my father must have had a hard time living there, eating meals in silence.
Right before I entered elementary school, we finally moved out and lived on our own, but at the same time, my father left his job to start his own business. Despite never having run a business before, he ventured into the food industry, a field completely unrelated to his prior work experience. Initially, business seemed to be going well thanks to my mother’s cooking skills, but after just one or two years, it couldn’t survive the economic crisis of the IMF era. Along with the business, we lost our home. How must my father have felt, at the age I am now, with three children to support, watching his life crumble? He opened a small restaurant again to try and make a living, but it didn’t last long either. Looking back, I can’t imagine how overwhelming and powerless he must have felt, not knowing where his life was headed. Unlike me, who only needs to feed herself, he had a family to care for. It was around this time that I started seeing my father as someone who only slept at home. Meanwhile, my mother jumped straight into the workforce. Both of my parents did whatever they could to make ends meet. There was no time, like I have now, to pause, pursue dreams, or find themselves.
My father, who became somewhat economically incompetent, began helping with household chores. However, in a country like South Korea, for a man to be economically inadequate was likely a hard blow to my father’s pride. As a result, he often became emotionally volatile. In fact, his emotional swings were probably connected to my mother’s emotional state. To avoid getting scolded by my father, I often found myself gauging my mother’s emotions. My parents said they had reasons for scolding me, but I never really understood what those reasons were. Some days I’d expect to be punished but wasn’t, and other days I’d be severely scolded out of the blue. The severity of these punishments left me traumatized, and even now, I sometimes feel overwhelmed when those memories resurface. My father couldn’t control his emotions well. After his anger subsided, he seemed to forget just how violent he had been, or maybe he simply didn’t want to remember. Instead of managing his emotions, he allowed them to sweep over him, and often his anger from elsewhere would be directed at me. I unconsciously thought of my father as pitiful and resented seeing him just sleeping all the time. At the same time, I was afraid of his inability to control his temper, yet I also felt sorry for him.
My father’s ideal daughter was someone closer to my natural personality, but around my volatile father, I had to become an obedient daughter. My parents might deny this, but I was actually a well-behaved student, never causing trouble at school, and I had to maintain good relationships with my friends. To maintain my parents’ pride, as they often boasted to relatives about my grades despite our financial situation, I had to study hard, even though I felt guilty for not always living up to the exaggerated expectations they set. My parents praised me for being bright and socially adept, so I had to pretend I had plenty of friends even when I was struggling with loneliness during a period when I ate lunch by myself. Their sacrifices left me feeling guilty for attending a costly private school, too afraid to speak up about wanting to transfer due to the fear of adjusting to a new environment. I felt ashamed of my cowardice and constantly anxious that my relatively well-off friends would find out about my family’s financial struggles. That was my adolescence.
When I moved to Seoul for university, I was physically separated from my parents, and slowly, I started to recognize ‘myself.’ However, I still had an unconscious desire to be the proud daughter they wanted, so I found myself struggling between ideals and reality. This internal conflict reached its peak when I entered graduate school for education, where my resentment toward my parents grew. At 25, I finally opened up to my parents about the pain I had carried, but my mother, unprepared for such a rebellion, was deeply shocked and lashed out in anger. For the first time, I fought with my parents instead of just being scolded. Afterward, we didn’t speak for six months. That was probably the real beginning of my adolescence. During this time, I saw a psychiatrist, who told me I needed to mentally detach from my mother because our psychological bond was too deep. I didn’t understand this at the time and felt the psychiatrist didn’t really get me. Even though I had expressed my true feelings, I was afraid that my words might have been ungrateful, wounding my mother, and I feared my father’s disappointment in me as a person. Even now, writing this, I worry that my mother might find this letter someday and consider it an act of ingratitude, but I now believe that’s a burden she must resolve on her own.
In any case, I still believed that succeeding and making them proud in front of others was the ‘repayment’ for their sacrifices. By the time I was in university, my father had somewhat regained his footing at work, but the burden of supporting the education of three daughters still weighed heavily on him. It was because of my father’s renewed financial stability that I could even dream of studying abroad. However, underneath that ambition, there was also a yearning to find what I truly wanted. That’s right. I didn’t pursue my studies abroad with ‘diligence’ or ‘sincerity.’ For about a year, I wandered, traveling instead of focusing on school, something I could do because my father was a reliable safety net. When he called to say he was struggling at work and wanted to quit, I brushed it off, thinking it was just the typical complaints of a middle-aged man.
A week before I was scheduled to return to Korea, I was scolded harshly by my father for my lack of effort in my studies. I was used to his angry outbursts, so I didn’t take it too personally, but then I received a text message from him apologizing for his harsh words and explaining that he, too, was having a hard time. It was the first time I had ever received an apology from my father.
One week later, I returned to Korea. Since I had a friend’s wedding to attend in Seoul that weekend, I planned to spend the first week in the city and head down to Busan to see my parents after the wedding. My friends and I gathered to celebrate the new year at the newlywed’s home, and that night, I stayed up talking to a friend who shared her worries about her father’s health, as he had recently undergone surgery for a heart condition. I felt concerned for her and her father. After the wedding, I briefly exchanged New Year’s greetings with my family. My father had gone to see the first sunrise of the year, as he always did, and sent a video of it to our family group chat. We exchanged some short messages of goodwill. The next day, I went shopping with my sister, planning to knit my father a hat and scarf for his upcoming birthday. After a shower, I received a call from my youngest sibling.
My younger sibling’s first words were, “Sister, don’t be shocked, just listen.” It was the news that our father had collapsed at work and was now undergoing emergency surgery. I couldn’t understand the situation. I rushed to the KTX with my sibling, hoping the surgery would be over by the time we arrived. I thought that when we got there, my father would be recovering after the surgery. But upon arrival, the surgery was still ongoing. They said the surgery was taking longer than expected. My father had collapsed due to a brain aneurysm, and because the affected area was critical, even if he woke up after the surgery, he might not be the same as before. At that moment, I worried about my father becoming more emotional and unpredictable, and I was anxious about my own well-being, knowing I would have to take care of him and couldn’t avoid family responsibilities. The first thing I worried about was the hospital bills. I also checked if we could get workers’ compensation, as I feared my father might not be able to work properly if he woke up. That was what I did. After the surgery, my father, lying unconscious on the bed, didn’t feel like my father at all. I had seen him sleeping many times, but it was hard to believe that this person with multiple tubes, wrapped head, and swollen face was my father. I only thought of him as my father because that’s what he was called.
My father was admitted to the intensive care unit. The post-surgery condition was not good. The aneurysm had burst in an area that controls autonomous breathing, so my father could not breathe on his own and relied on a machine for respiration. The brain waves were faintly detected, so he was not brain dead. I read hopeful accounts from people who had awakened in similar situations, focusing on those who had recovered to daily life. However, the doctor’s response was skeptical. I thought doctors generally consider it a virtue not to give false hope to patients or their families. The attending physician cautiously asked us about our father’s wishes regarding organ donation. The lack of hope was alarming. But since faint brain waves were still detectable, it was not brain death. We, as the guardians, had to make the decision. Considering my father’s usual nature, he would likely have been positive about organ donation at a conscious level. However, he had never explicitly stated his wishes. So, we didn’t know his exact stance. It was entirely our decision. What if, by removing the chance of recovery, we were essentially deciding to end his life? It felt as if our decision was killing him. We postponed the decision. During the postponement, my father’s blood oxygen saturation, due to the lack of autonomous breathing, increased, making many organs unsuitable for transplantation. On one hand, I felt relieved not having to make the decision anymore, but on the other hand, I felt guilty for possibly depriving the chance to save lives. My father lasted another week, but mechanical ventilation was no longer effective, and the cause of death was accurately recorded as pneumonia.
About thirty minutes before my father’s heart stopped, the doctor allowed the family into the intensive care unit. Seeing my father still lying there felt awkward. Yet, knowing he was about to pass away made me feel like I should be sad. I felt shame for trying to appear sad, and I hoped others wouldn’t notice. Even after my father’s heart stopped, it was hard to believe. There was no sense of reality.
Soon, the staff asked if we wanted the funeral to be held at the hospital’s funeral home. Since we hadn’t made any other arrangements, we agreed. There were many decisions to be made for the funeral. Following those procedures left me with little time to be truly sad. It seemed that the complexity of funeral procedures was meant to prevent falling into grief. When the funeral began, many people came. Although I was busy attending to the guests, I didn’t have time to be sad because I was catching up with relatives and friends. Even when I saw my father in the coffin covered with hemp cloth, it still felt unreal. Moreover, my father, dressed in an unfamiliar hemp outfit with a blank expression and closed eyes, felt even more distant. Even during the cremation, it was just part of the funeral procedures, and the pressure to be sad was greater. Occasionally, when my father’s friends said, “Your father passed away after only a week to avoid causing you trouble,” it didn’t feel rude but seemed like the truth.
My father’s ashes were placed in a public columbarium. The thought that this tiny place, smaller than my bookshelf, was where my father would remain was upsetting, but it still didn’t feel real. After the funeral, there were even more tasks to handle. Since our family observed the 49th-day ceremony, we went to the temple every week to perform rituals and later did a sort of ritual to send the soul to a good place, adding more procedures. As this was my first experience with death, I was busy going through these processes. After everything was somewhat settled, when organizing my father’s belongings with my siblings, we even joked and mimicked my father. Then one day, while my mother was briefly away from the parked car, I checked my phone and saw numerous missed calls from my father in my messenger call log. I wasn’t a particularly affectionate daughter and had avoided calls from my father to hide the fact that I wasn’t diligently studying abroad. That was when the tears finally came pouring out. It hit me that these calls would never appear on my phone again. It was a call I could no longer receive, even if I wanted to.
After sending my father off, I thankfully returned to Berlin. I thought that having dealt with such a big event, my previously lazy and passive lifestyle would change. However, I became even more lethargic. The absence of a financial support system brought a sense of insecurity. My father occasionally appeared in my dreams, and the next morning, I felt guilt. It felt as if my financial insecurity was subconsciously calling him into my dreams, and I felt ashamed of myself for viewing my father as merely a source of economic value. I felt guilt towards my father and shame about myself.
After my father’s death, I don’t want to repeat the same patterns with my mother, but I am still avoiding calls with her due to feelings of burden and avoidance. I also try to ignore my mother’s suffering. I fear the judgment of others who might criticize me and worry about losing my life in Berlin, so I don’t talk much about my family in Korea. Now, our family is each trying to survive on their own. After my father’s death, our family, which used to be relatively family-centered, is now focused on surviving individually. My siblings also seem to be struggling with their own difficulties, but fortunately, they are pursuing their dreams. Although our family is somewhat fragmented, we support each other’s dreams.
In the first few years after my father’s death, I thought about how things would be if he were still alive due to financial difficulties. Since I hadn’t visited him often after college, the impact didn’t feel that strong. Yet, sometimes, unexpected tears come. About six months ago, roughly four years after my father’s death, I realized I was feeling an unknown sense of liberation. I am no longer anxious about not meeting my parents’ expectations. Although I occasionally disappoint myself, I am not afraid of my parents being disappointed in me. Over the past 4-5 years, I have been shedding the image of the daughter my parents wanted and am now seeing my true self, struggling to live the life I want. Having experienced complete freedom and wandered a bit, I am now gradually building a control system that I design myself.
If there is an ideal role for parents in societal norms, it would be control and discipline for the father and tolerance and care for the mother. As mentioned earlier, while our father did his best to fulfill his role as a father, it was difficult for him to accept himself and look inward as a person. Thus, the control and discipline he imposed were inconsistent and swayed by his emotions, making it hard for me to understand and accept. After experiencing my father’s absence, I seem to have lost a mental control and discipline system and was in a state of mental freedom. However, recently, I realized that to truly feel free, there must be proper control and discipline as a foundation. Therefore, I am now in the process of building my true image of a father within myself.
My life is still difficult, and things don’t seem to be going well. In the past, I would have prayed for my father’s help. But now, I believe that my struggles are entirely mine to endure. I no longer want to make demands from my peacefully resting father. Although I have resented him many times, now I understand and have compassion for him as a person. I hope his soul receives comfort from this confession. He was undoubtedly a part of my life, and I love my life.