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# Chapter 79: A Mother’s Hands
4:47 AM. Seah lay beside her mother but couldn’t sleep. She was counting the mold stains on the ceiling. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. The mold was alive—quietly breeding in the humidity of this place. Growing in secret, like Seah herself.
Her mother’s breathing was deep and rhythmic. A haenyeo’s breath. The breathing of one trained in the water. Inhale deeply, hold long, exhale slowly. The rhythm of survival. In that rhythm, her mother slept while Seah remained awake.
Seah’s neck was still hot. She could still feel the warmth of Kangriw’s hands lingering there. The marks had darkened. From purple to black. The body remembers wounds through color. The body is evidence without words.
Seah rose quietly from the bed, careful not to wake her mother. The room was thick with darkness, while beyond the window, Jeju was turning the blue of dawn. A few stars still remained. Stars invisible in Seoul. Stars that only appeared where there was no air pollution.
She made her way to the living room—if it could be called that. Really, it was one space shared with the kitchen. A small refrigerator, an old gas stove, a small dining table. Her mother’s entire life fit within these walls. Everything a haenyeo in her mid-sixties could possess.
She opened the refrigerator. Seaweed. Anchovies. Eggs. And a pot of seaweed soup that looked like yesterday’s purchase. The smell was strong. Salt. The ocean. Her mother’s smell.
Seah closed it again. She had no appetite. Or rather, she couldn’t eat. Her throat hurt. Not just from Kangriw’s fingerprints. This was a deeper pain.
Photos covered the living room wall, held up with old yellowed tape. Photos from when her mother was a haenyeo, from when her father was alive, photos of young Seah and Dohyun. A wall where time accumulated. A wall of memory.
Seah studied her mother’s photos. Mother in her thirties. Mother in her forties. Mother in her fifties. With each passing decade, her mother had grown smaller. More bent. More transparent. Like a stone slowly eroding in water.
Her phone rang. 4:52 AM. Someone was calling. The screen read “Dohyun.”
Seah didn’t answer. Instead, she turned the screen off. What could she tell Dohyun? “I’m sorry, your sister ran away”? “I’m sorry, your sister abandoned you”? “I’m sorry, your sister is in Jeju”?
The phone rang again. The same number. Dohyun. Dohyun. Dohyun.
She shoved the phone under the bed, as if the problem itself would disappear if she hid it away.
“What are you doing?”
Her mother’s voice. She stood in the doorway, already dressed. In work clothes—the kind a haenyeo would wear. A black long-sleeved shirt. She was already preparing to go out.
“Where are you going?”
Seah asked.
“Out to the sea. What else.”
Her mother answered naturally, as if every morning were like this.
“Mother… it’s only five in the morning.”
Seah said.
“I need to prepare before the sun rises. Gather my tools, heat the water.”
Her mother opened the refrigerator. She pulled out the seaweed soup—pot and all. She ladled rice from the cooker. Filled a bowl. Poured the broth. Every movement was quick. The speed of decades of repetition.
“Mother, because of me—”
Seah started.
“Because of you? Your mother has always woken at this hour.”
Her mother ate. Drank the broth. Swallowed the rice. This too was fast. Efficient. No waste.
Seah watched. Even while eating, her mother didn’t look at her. Instead, she gazed at the photos on the wall. At her own young self. At Seah’s father.
“Seah.”
Her mother suddenly spoke while eating.
“Yes?”
Seah answered.
“Mother wants to ask you something. Will you answer honestly?”
“Yes.”
Seah said, though she wasn’t sure if she could.
Her mother set down her spoon. Half the rice remained, but she stopped eating.
“That man, Kangriw. Do you love him?”
The Jeju dawn was very quiet. Only the hum of the refrigerator. The tick of the wall clock’s second hand. And Seah’s breathing.
Seah couldn’t answer. She couldn’t say “I love him,” and she couldn’t say “I don’t love him.” Both were lies and both were true.
“I don’t know.”
She finally said.
Her mother picked up her spoon again. Finished the remaining rice. Drank the last of the broth. She set the bowl down and wiped her mouth with her hand.
“Mother has something to tell you.”
Her mother said.
“What?”
“About how Mother met your father.”
Her mother stood. She placed the bowl in the sink. Rinsed it. Every movement still quick.
“Mother met your father at the same harbor. While Mother was diving, Father was casting his nets. He was a fisherman. And he was a very foolish man.”
Her mother laughed. It was a sad laugh.
“Father fell in love with Mother at first sight. When Mother surfaced from the water—her wet face, that expression of drawing in air. Father saw that and thought: this woman is my life. And Father said to Mother: ‘Marry me.’ Just like that, right after meeting.”
Seah listened. She’d never heard this story before.
“What did Mother say? Mother laughed. Said he was crazy. And went back into the water. But Father came to the harbor every day. Every single day. Until Mother surfaced. And he kept saying it: ‘Marry me.’ Every day.”
Her mother turned from the sink. She looked at Seah.
“So what did Mother think? This man is completely insane. But three months later, Mother married him. Why do you think?”
Seah didn’t answer.
“Not because of love. Mother didn’t love that man at first. But when he came to the harbor every day, said the same thing every day, when he kept trying to see Mother… Mother realized who Mother was.”
Her mother moved closer to Seah.
“Only through the way Father saw Mother could Mother see herself. Only through the fact that someone desired her that much. That was what Mother mistook for love. That was Mother’s entire existence.”
Her mother’s hand rose. It cradled Seah’s face, like the night before. But this time, it held a different emotion.
“Seah. You can’t think that just because someone wants you, that’s love. When someone wants you to the point of killing you… that’s not love. That’s addiction. And it’s not for you—it’s for them.”
Seah felt her mother’s hand. A haenyeo’s hand. The hand that harvested seaweed from the depths. The hand that nursed her father. The hand that held Seah. Now that hand cradled her face.
“What did that man tell you?”
Her mother asked.
“What do you mean?”
Seah asked.
“Did he say thank you for saving me? Thank you for understanding me? Something like that?”
Her mother asked.
Seah didn’t answer. But her mother already knew. Her silence was answer enough.
“That’s not gratitude. That’s debt. And debts can’t be repaid. They have to be paid forever. That’s why he can’t let you go. And why you can’t let him go either.”
Her mother’s hand came down. It touched Seah’s neck. Over the marks. Over the wounds left by Kangriw’s fingers.
“Look at this. This can’t be love. This is war. A war between you and that man. And there’s only one way to win a war.”
“How?”
Seah asked.
“Run away.”
Her mother said. “Completely. Never return. So that man can never find you.”
“Then… what about Dohyun?”
Seah asked.
“Dohyun must live his own life. Not for you. And Mother too. Mother has lived enough for you. After your father died, Mother lived only for you. But you’re living only for that man. No one can live for someone else, Seah. It’s impossible.”
Her mother took Seah’s hand. Seah’s hand was small. Her mother’s was smaller. But that small hand held strength. The strength to harvest seaweed in the depths. The strength of survival.
“Mother will go to the sea today. And you’ll stay here. A week. Or a month. Rest well. Don’t answer any calls. Anyone. Not that man, not Dohyun. Just… learn how to live here.”
Her mother said.
“Mother…”
Seah spoke.
“Seah. Mother will tell you one last thing. Mother loves you. Really. But that’s not enough. You have to love yourself. Not someone else. Yourself.”
Her mother glanced at the clock. 5:18 AM. A little over an hour until sunrise.
“Mother has to go. Need to gather my things.”
Her mother said. She picked up her bag. Black. A haenyeo’s bag. Seah watched as her mother looked at her once more, then left through the door.
The door closed. And Seah was left alone. In the living room. In her mother’s house. In Jeju’s dawn.
Seah went to the mirror. The bathroom mirror. She looked at her neck. The marks were still dark. The body remembers wounds. The body is honest.
For the first time, Seah truly looked at herself. Or rather, truly faced herself. Not as Kangriw saw her. Not as her mother saw her. Only as she saw herself.
And in that moment, Seah understood what her mother meant.
Living for someone is the same as dying for them.
6:42 AM. Seah lay in bed. Her mother’s bed. The bed that carried her mother’s scent. She began counting the mold stains on the ceiling again. Ten. Twenty. Thirty.
But this time she counted differently. With each stain, she exhaled. Deeply. As if surfacing from water.
The phone was still under the bed. It would ring. It would keep ringing. Dohyun’s calls. Kangriw’s calls. Sky’s calls.
Seah closed her eyes. She breathed like her mother. Deeply. Slowly. Rhythmically.
The body is honest. The body remembers wounds. And the body can heal.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
But surely.