The Things That Had to Be Sold, and the Person Who Had to Remain

Her father began wandering the country again. This time, it was clear that money was needed. He did not explain his reasons in detail, but every time he left, his pockets grew lighter. Every time he returned, his face became more clouded. Wandering may have been part of his nature, but even a wandering nature required money to continue. At first, the household could manage it. They released some grain from storage, adjusted the account books, and reduced the number of hired hands. But the longer his absences became, the more noticeably money flowed out of the house. In the end, Gyu’s mother made a decision. The mountain behind the house. Several plots of field below the village. Nearly half of what the family owned had to be sold. That morning, her mother spoke less than usual. Even after the broker left, she sat silently in the kitchen, sorting grains of rice. Gyu looked at her mother’s hands. They had grown rougher than the rice itself. On the day the land was sold, the villagers whispered quietly. “They still have plenty left.” “Even after selling half, that family will still have more than others.” Those words were not wrong. The family still had land. They still had grain. Their household goods were still more than enough. There was no danger of starving. No one would lose the house. No child would be left without food. But Gyu knew. It was not only the land that had grown smaller. Something inside her mother had grown smaller too. After that day, her mother changed. Her words became shorter. Her voice grew lower, but harder. Her laughter almost disappeared, and in its place came quicker judgment. “Do not say useless things.” “That will not do.” “This is not the time for that.” Her mother’s words were always as precise as a knife. Instead of explaining gently, she went straight to the conclusion. She did not mix emotion into her decisions. She left no room for argument. She was changing the way she protected the house. Gyu feared that change. But she understood it too. Her father wandered. The family’s property had shrunk. The children kept growing in number. Someone had to become harder. That person was her mother. One night, Gyu saw her mother sitting alone with the account book open before her. Under the dim light of the oil lamp, her mother traced each line with her finger, calculating what remained and what had already disappeared. Gyu knew what those numbers meant. “Mother.” Her mother did not lift her head. “Will we have to sell more land?” At that question, her mother’s hand stopped. A brief silence passed. “No.” Her answer was firm. “We will sell no more.” There was more will than calculation in those words. Her mother had already drawn a line inside herself, a line beyond which she would not retreat. After that night, her mother began entrusting more work to Gyu. Fieldwork, housework, dealing with people, managing small decisions. Gyu knew it was not simply because her mother trusted her. It was because there was no one else she could trust. Her mother often said, “A household is not protected by the soft-hearted.” The words were not aimed at anyone in particular. But Gyu felt that, in the end, her mother was speaking to herself. Whenever her father returned home, the air in the house filled with tension. He was uncomfortable with the woman her mother had become. And her mother no longer understood the man who had not changed. “Do you think this house exists so you can wander?” Her words were sharp. Her father did not answer. That silence always made things worse. That night, while putting her baby sister to sleep, Gyu thought about how the person who had changed most in the house was her mother, and the person who had changed least was her father. And somewhere between them, Gyu found herself leaning more and more toward her mother. At eighteen, Gyu understood. A rich household did not mean a household with many possessions. It meant a household with many things it had to endure losing. Even after half the mountain and fields were sold, the house was still alive. But the softness that had once remained on her mother’s face never returned. In its place, the house did not collapse. Before long, Gyu’s older sister’s marriage was arranged. The family accepted it as something long expected, but to Gyu, it felt sudden. Her sister had always carried the outside work of the household, while Gyu supported her from behind. For that sister to leave meant that the balance of the house would tilt to one side. The man came from an ordinary family. People said he was diligent. They said there was no serious flaw in him. Those words sounded like praise, but Gyu could hear another meaning beneath them. Ordinary meant poor. He did not have many rice paddies. His fields were not abundant. The only property his family possessed was the labor of each day. Her sister knew this. Yet she chose to marry him. Gyu could not easily decide whether that choice was escape or courage. The wedding preparations were quiet. Although they were still considered a wealthy household, her mother did not want anything grand. “There is no need to show off uselessly.” Her mother’s tone had become sharper than before. Every decision was quick and firm. She gave no room for hesitation and offered no explanation. Gyu did not argue. In that house, arguing only made matters larger. As the wedding day approached, one fact became clear. Their father would not come. No one asked why. Her mother closed her mouth. Her sister hid her expression. Only Gyu felt the emptiness clearly. On the day of the wedding, her father’s seat remained empty. People whispered, but not for long. In that family, absence had long since become a condition that required no explanation. Her sister stood at the ceremony in plain clothes. She was not dazzling. She did not stand out. But Gyu saw that her sister’s hands were trembling. Those hands had moved for the family all her life. Now they would become hands that worked for another house. Her sister looked at Gyu and smiled. “You have to stay.” It sounded like a joke. But the words stayed in Gyu’s heart for a long time. To remain did not sound like a choice. It sounded like an assigned role. After the ceremony, her sister left. She did not take much with her. A road leading to an ordinary house did not require many belongings. After her sister left, the house became quieter. That quiet was not peace. It was compressed tension. Her mother grew rougher. Her words became fewer, and her gaze sharper. Gyu already knew how to read her mother’s moods with her body, but now even that became harder. “Why has that not been done yet?” “You will lose money if you do it that way.” “Do not waste your feelings.” Her mother’s words were always right. That was what made them difficult. Because they were not wrong, there was no space to resist them. Gyu’s days became simple. She woke in the morning, worked, moved according to her mother’s instructions, and cared for her younger siblings. The youngest was growing, and one of her younger sisters was beginning to resemble her. Sometimes Gyu wondered why her older sister had chosen an ordinary house. Why had she left wealth and chosen poverty? Then one day, she suddenly understood. Ordinary may have meant poor. But in poverty, there might be no father’s absence. The thought startled her. It helped her understand her sister, yet at the same time it tied Gyu more tightly to the house. One night, after the youngest child had fallen asleep, Gyu sat across from her mother at the table. “Do you think my sister will live well?” Her mother paused. Then she answered shortly. “She must.” There was no visible worry in her voice, nor visible affection. It was simply the tone of someone accepting reality. Gyu asked no more. In that house, the moment emotion was spoken aloud, it often became a weakness. As Gyu approached nineteen, she understood. Whenever one person left the house, the burden of the person who remained grew heavier. Her sister had chosen the ordinary. Gyu had not chosen endurance. Yet she was enduring. Her father was still absent. Her mother had become stronger. And Gyu was quietly growing between them. Her daily life continued. By the time Gyu turned twenty, people began to speak. “It is time to talk about her marriage too.” The words sounded like concern, but they were closer to inspection. Was she old enough? Was the family still strong? And above all, did the household have a son? Around that time, a fifth younger sister was born. The child was born while her father was away. And again, the child was a daughter. Now there were five daughters in the house. It was still a wealthy household. There were still rice paddies and fields. No one feared hunger. But in that country, in that era, a wealthy family with five daughters was not a blessing. It was almost a flaw. People did not say it directly. Instead, they said things like: “At least they have property.” “They can bring in good sons-in-law.” “They have no son, but the household itself is strong.” All those words meant the same thing. The absence of a son was a defect that no polite phrase could hide. Gyu felt those gazes with her whole body. When she went to the market, people’s endings changed. Whenever she met someone, their eyes seemed to search the inside of her house. After that, her mother became even quieter. Her tone was still harsh, but whenever her father’s name came up, something in her changed. Before him, her mother always took one step back. It was not a matter of personality. It was a matter of social face. There was no son in the family. And that fact was treated as her mother’s responsibility. Her mother said nothing. But Gyu knew. She knew why her mother always seemed smaller before her father. The reality of five daughters had the power to turn even her father’s absence into her mother’s fault. When her father came home, her mother spoke less. Even her decisions slowed by one beat in front of him. “What do you think?” she would ask. Before saying those words, she always paused. Watching this, Gyu felt something strange. The person truly protecting the house was her mother. The person who had raised the children, endured the loss of property, and held the household together was her mother. And yet, for the single reason that she had no son, her mother was always made to seem lacking. Marriage talk began to reach Gyu as well. It did not come openly at first. People first mentioned the fact that her older sister had already married, then the fact that the house had only daughters. “You are not really suitable as the eldest daughter-in-law.” “Your family is rather strong.” “I hear your mother is a formidable woman.” Those words were not judgments of Gyu alone. They were judgments of the entire household. Only then did Gyu understand. Marriage was not a matter of one person. It was an inspection of a family’s structure. Her mother said nothing directly to Gyu. She simply gave her more work and expected her to become harder. “Do not listen to what people say.” But despite those words, her mother herself was listening to the world with her whole body. Five daughters. No son. A house under scrutiny. All of it pressed down on her mother little by little. Sometimes that pressure came out as anger. Sometimes it hardened into silence. One night, Gyu stood in the yard holding her fifth younger sister. The baby’s face knew nothing of the world yet. She had no guilt, no deficiency, no reason to be judged. But Gyu knew. As this child grew, she too would one day receive the same gaze, the same weight. At twenty, Gyu felt it clearly for the first time. In this house, to be born a daughter was not simply to be loved. It was to be given an assignment to prove one’s worth. And the person who had carried that assignment the longest and most silently was her mother. The moment Gyu understood this, she could no longer see her mother only as a harsh woman. Her mother had simply been enduring for a long time beneath the eyes of the country, the village, and the household. Gyu was born in 1935. By the time she turned twenty-two, no one could say she was still young. In those days, when a woman passed twenty, it meant marriage discussions should already be underway. At twenty-two, she was nearly considered late. Five daughters in one house. As time passed, that fact became heavier. People did not speak too openly, but the direction of their words was always the same. “The eldest daughter is married now…” “Next is Gyu, isn’t it?” “As for the family, of course, there is nothing to criticize.” Marriage was no longer Gyu’s personal matter. It was a way to settle the family’s reputation, property, and the uneasiness of having five daughters and no son. Around that time, the name of one family began to circulate in the village. People called them “the Japan family.” They were a family that had fled from Japan and settled there. After liberation and through the war, they had been forced to leave everything behind in Japan—their home, their land, their property—and return with empty hands. There were ten children in that family. A house where brothers and sisters sat in rows to eat. People said of them: “They are blessed with children.” “They have many people, but nothing to their name.” The Japan family was clearly poor. But there was one thing that caught the village’s attention. Their eldest son. He was university-educated. In a mountain village of that era, the word university sounded almost legendary. A person who read books. A person who had learned the world through letters. A person who might one day live by his mind rather than his hands. “The eldest son of the Japan family went to university.” “They say he was very good at studying.” “But the family is too weak.” People’s opinions were divided. But once someone said the following words, the story began moving in a completely different direction. “Would he not be a good match for Gyu’s family?” At that moment, the pieces began to fit. Gyu’s family was wealthy. Although they had sold half their mountain and fields, they still had considerable assets. The house had been shaken, but it had not collapsed. The Japan family was poor. But their eldest son had education. And most importantly, they had sons. Naturally, this marriage came to be seen as a strategic match. Gyu had property and family standing. That household had a man who could carry a family name. When Gyu’s mother heard the suggestion, she said nothing. But Gyu felt that her silence had already been prepared for a long time. Her mother’s face was the face of someone who had finished calculating. “They may be from the Japan family, but people say he is decent.” “It is a household with sons.” Inside those words were both a mother’s concern for her daughter and a decision to use that daughter as a solution for the family. Her father showed no particular reaction to the marriage talk. Whether he was present or absent, decisions always seemed to be made somewhere outside him. When Gyu heard the man’s name, she felt for the first time that she had become a condition. A rich family’s daughter. The second daughter in a house with only daughters. Twenty-two years old. Hardworking, quiet, and able to leave. And the man was the eldest son of a poor but educated family. The pillar of a house with many children. The name of a household returned from Japan. This marriage had nothing to do with love. But it did not feel entirely unfamiliar either. For Gyu, who had lived her whole life in that house, life had always been decided by necessity. One night, Gyu asked her mother, “Are they very poor?” Her mother hesitated for a moment. Then she said, “Poverty can be endured.” “But what is lacking can sometimes be filled. A missing son cannot be filled.” Those words explained Gyu’s marriage. They also sounded like a judgment on her mother’s own life. Eventually, the marriage discussions began. People came and went. Words were exchanged. Gyu was at the center of the conversation, but her own voice was hardly needed. This marriage was not truly for Gyu. It was a matter of joining one household to another. At twenty-two, Gyu knew. This marriage would not make her rich. She was already from a rich family. Instead, this marriage would make her the answer to a household’s problem. And the price of that answer would soon be her own life. The Japan family needed money. There was no need to hide or decorate that fact. In a family with ten children, having a university-educated eldest son was a source of pride, but also a burden. The more they had invested in his education, the poorer the household had become. Until the eldest son could earn money, there was no way to fill that gap. Gyu’s family, on the other hand, still had assets. Even after selling half their mountain and fields, the remaining land, grain, and household foundation were secure. There was no problem surviving. More than anything, there was still enough room to settle the uncertain future of a household with five daughters. So this marriage was not born from anyone’s dream. It was the result of two needs fitting together too perfectly. Gyu’s mother wanted to send her daughter into an intelligent family. It did not have to be wealthy. Poverty was acceptable if the household had brains. What mattered to her was simple. The house her daughter entered had to be one where she would not be made small for giving birth to daughters, a house where judgment came before empty words, and above all, a house that might still move forward. The eldest son of the Japan family seemed to fit that condition. He had gone to university. He spoke coherently. He did not shrink in front of people. “An educated person is different,” Gyu’s mother said. Inside those words were both expectation and calculation. The marriage moved quickly. Not long after the family’s name was first mentioned, people began visiting, dates were discussed, and procedures moved ahead before Gyu had even properly seen the man’s face. Gyu watched the process from a distance. If someone asked, she nodded. If no one asked, she said nothing. In that house, a daughter’s opinion was needed only when she objected. The Japan family was more impatient. They needed money. For them, this marriage was not simply a union. It was a chance to rebuild the household. The assets and trust attached to Gyu’s family were, to them, a way to breathe again. The eldest son did not say this himself. But his parents did not hide it. “Our circumstances are difficult now, but if the children are raised well, things will change.” It sounded like a request. In truth, it was closer to a promise. Gyu’s mother nodded. She was someone who believed poverty could be endured. But she could not endure incompetence or ignorance. The phrase “an educated person is different” was also a spell she used to persuade herself. Listening beside them, Gyu understood. In this marriage, she was not a daughter. She was a condition. A household that needed money. A mother who wanted to send her daughter into a clever family. Between the two, Gyu’s name passed too easily. Their first meeting was brief. There were not many words, but there was courtesy. The man looked directly at Gyu and bowed his head. “I am lacking in many ways, but I will do my best.” The words sounded sincere. But Gyu could not tell whether they were directed at her, or at her family. The conversation flowed mostly among the adults. His education. His plans. His responsibility as the eldest son. Very few questions were directed to Gyu herself. “She is good at work, I hear?” “She must be used to household matters.” Those questions were closer to confirmation than curiosity. The answers had already been decided. That night, Gyu stood alone in the yard. The house was quiet, but the marriage talk had already filled every corner of it. At twenty-two, Gyu knew. This marriage would not be a failure. But it was not her choice either. For the Japan family, it was a foothold for recovery. For her mother, it was the most reasonable move in sending away a daughter. For Gyu, it was an extension of the way she had always lived. Everything moved very quickly. A date was chosen. Belongings were discussed. Little by little, Gyu’s place in the house began to empty. Her youngest sister still clung to the hem of her skirt. Her mother grew even more silent. One day, her mother said to Gyu, “A person only changes places.” It was not comfort. It was not explanation. It was simply the way of that house. Gyu nodded. There was one thing she had learned there. If you hesitate, life will be decided by someone else. And now, that decision was nearly complete.