Chapter 24: The Acceptance Letter
The letter from Seoul National University arrived on a Friday in February 2010, in a white envelope that looked exactly like every other piece of mail except for the fact that it contained Daniel Cho’s entire future.
His mother found it first. She’d been checking the mailbox every day since January—sometimes twice, as if the postal service might make surprise afternoon deliveries for particularly anxious families. When she saw the SNU logo in the corner, she did not open it. She placed it on the kitchen table, called Daniel’s school, told the secretary it was a family emergency, and waited.
Daniel arrived home at 2 PM to find both parents sitting at the kitchen table. The letter sat between them like an unexploded ordnance.
“You called me out of school,” Daniel said.
“It came,” his mother said.
“I can see that.”
“Open it.”
“Now?”
“Now, Daniel.”
He sat down. Picked up the envelope. It was light—too light for a rejection, which typically came with a pamphlet about “alternative pathways.” But light could also mean a single sheet that said “We regret to inform you.”
You know you got in. You scored 97th percentile. Your application essay was a masterwork of controlled brilliance (Soyeon’s words, not yours). Your extracurriculars included a tutoring business that earned over two million won and a stock portfolio that had tripled in value. You know you got in.
But your hands are shaking anyway.
He opened the envelope. Pulled out the single sheet of paper. Read the first line.
Dear Cho Daniel, We are pleased to inform you that you have been admitted to the Seoul National University College of Business Administration for the 2010 academic year—
He didn’t read the rest. He didn’t need to. The first eight words were enough.
“I got in,” he said.
His mother burst into tears. Not the quiet, controlled crying of Suneung night—this was the full-body, uninhibited crying of a woman who had spent her entire life hoping for something she hadn’t dared to name, and here it was, in an envelope, on a Friday afternoon.
His father stood up. Walked around the table. And hugged Daniel.
Not a shoulder-pat. Not a three-second contact event. A real hug. Both arms, full pressure, the fierce grip of a man who had worked with his hands for thirty years and was now holding the proof that his son would never have to.
It lasted seven seconds. The longest physical contact Daniel had ever had with his father.
“Well done,” his father said. Two words. The most his voice could carry without breaking.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Don’t thank me. This is yours.”
“It’s ours.”
His father stepped back. Rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand—”dust,” he would say later, “the ventilation in this apartment is terrible.” Sat back down. Picked up his newspaper. Held it upside-down for thirty seconds before noticing.
His mother was still crying. She would continue to cry, intermittently, for the rest of the day—while making dinner, while calling her sister, while telling the neighbor, while standing in the bathroom pretending to wash her face but actually crying into a towel.
Minji came home at 4 PM and found the letter on the refrigerator, pinned with a magnet shaped like a fish (a souvenir from the fishing trips).
“SNU,” she read. Then louder: “SNU?! Oppa got into SNU?!”
“Don’t shout, Minji.”
“MOM, DAD, OPPA GOT INTO SNU!”
“We know, Minji. We were here.”
“THIS IS HUGE! This is—this is like—” She searched for an appropriate comparison. “This is like if a fish caught a fisherman!”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Daniel said.
“It makes EMOTIONAL sense! You were a C-student! Now you’re going to SNU! That’s the fish catching the fisherman!”
“I’m going to need you to stop with the fish metaphors.”
“NEVER.” She jumped on him—literally jumped, twelve years old and zero regard for personal boundaries—and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’m so proud of you, oppa. Even though you’re weird.”
“Thanks, Minji.”
“You’re welcome. Also, Lotte World round two. Non-negotiable.”
“We just went.”
“That was a celebration of qualification. This is a celebration of acceptance. Totally different occasion.”
Daniel looked at his family. His crying mother. His upside-down-newspaper father. His fish-metaphor sister. The small apartment with the water-stained ceiling and the humming refrigerator and the smell of his mother’s cooking and the sound of his father’s television.
In my first life, this moment never happened. I got a mediocre acceptance letter from a mediocre university and felt nothing. My parents said “that’s nice” and we ate dinner and life continued without interruption.
This. This right here. This crying and hugging and fish metaphors and upside-down newspapers. This is what I came back for.
He called Soyeon.
“I got in.”
“I know. I checked the public admission list this morning. You’re number 847 on the Business Administration roster.”
“How did you access the public admission list before the letters went out?”
“I have methods.”
“That’s mildly terrifying.”
“You’re welcome. I’m number 12 on the Law roster, in case you’re curious.”
“Number 12 out of?”
“Twelve.”
“You’re the last person admitted?”
“I’m the twelfth person ranked. Out of 150 admitted. They list in alphabetical order within score bands. I’m in the top band.” She paused. “Obviously.”
“Obviously. Congratulations, Soyeon.”
“Congratulations, Daniel. See you in March.”
“See you in March.”
He called Minho next.
“BRO!” Minho’s voice was so loud that Daniel’s mother heard it from the kitchen. “SNU?!”
“SNU.”
“THE Cho Daniel, formerly of Bupyeong, currently of genius status, is going to SEOUL NATIONAL UNIVERSITY?!”
“Yes.”
“I’m at Korea University. You’re at SNU. We’re both in Seoul. THE DREAM TEAM IS MOVING TO THE BIG LEAGUES!”
“The dream team.”
“We need to celebrate. Tomorrow. Tteokbokki cart. My treat. Bring Soyeon if she’s capable of human emotions.”
“She’s capable. She just rations them.”
“That’s the funniest and most accurate thing you’ve ever said. TOMORROW. TTEOKBOKKI. NON-NEGOTIABLE.”
“Non-negotiable.”
He hung up. The apartment was warm and full and loud with the sound of a family celebrating something they had never imagined possible. His father had turned the newspaper right-side-up. His mother had stopped crying and started cooking—which was her way of processing joy, the same way cooking was her way of processing worry, grief, and Tuesday.
Daniel sat at the kitchen table, the acceptance letter in his hands, and allowed himself one moment of pure, uncompliceted happiness.
Then he opened his notebook and wrote:
February 2010. SNU Business Administration. Admitted.
Volume 1 complete. Volume 2 begins in March.
At SNU, I will meet three people who will change everything: Yoon Sarah, Lee Marcus, and Professor Kim Jongwoo.
The foundation is built. Now I build the house.