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# Chapter 143: The Name of Her Father
Her mother never did tell her his name.
Sea-ah held the phone to her ear as she walked toward Gangnam Station. Her mother’s voice continued to flow through the line, feeling like blood running through her veins—not the salt of Jeju’s waters, but something warmer, deeper, flowing through her very being. Her mother spoke about her father. But she did not speak his name. Instead, she spoke the words he had spoken to her.
“He said he would save me.”
Her mother repeated this. Sea-ah did not stop walking. She passed the subway entrance. She hadn’t gone yet. Gangnam was still far away. But her feet were already moving, as if of their own accord.
“He said he would pull me out of the water. That he knew how dangerous it was to be a haenyeo. That he would bring me out of that water.”
Her mother’s voice trembled. And Sea-ah understood. She understood why her mother had remained silent all this time. Why she had chosen only silence. Why she had wanted to stay only in the water. It was a wound. Not just any wound, but a wound without a name. A wound that could not be spoken.
“And I believed him.”
Her mother continued. The noise of the street grew louder. Past eight in the evening, Hongdae became busier. Music erupted from everywhere. The beat of clubs. A busker’s guitar. Someone’s laughter. Yet Sea-ah heard only her mother’s voice cutting through it all, as if her ears had been tuned to receive only that frequency.
“Do you know what that was?”
Her mother asked.
“What was it?”
Sea-ah asked back, as if she already knew the answer. But she didn’t want to know. She couldn’t afford to know. Because it was too much like herself.
“A lie.”
Her mother said it. Those two syllables pierced through Sea-ah’s heart. A lie. It explained everything. Everything. Why her mother had been silent. Why she had never mentioned the father. Why she had never told her daughters. Why she had wanted to stay only in the water.
“That man didn’t save me. He was trying to save himself. What he needed wasn’t me—it was the feeling of being a savior. And I gave him that. As long as I stayed in the water, he could feel like a savior.”
Sea-ah stopped completely. People pushed past her, but she didn’t move. She stood near the entrance to Gangnam Station. Buildings cut across the sky. Between them, the visible sky was black. Night. Complete night. And the darkness terrified her.
“Sea-ah, listen. What I’m telling you now isn’t a warning.”
Her mother spoke. Her voice grew lower, as if it existed only within her own mouth. Like a secret.
“Then what is it?”
Sea-ah asked. Her throat was completely dry, as if someone had sucked all the moisture from it. It was because of the heat. The heat rising from within her own body.
“Regret. Thirty years of regret.”
Her mother said. And Sea-ah felt tears about to spill over. But they didn’t come. No tears fell. Instead, her body trembled. Every three seconds. Regularly. As if her heartbeat was transmitting through her fingertips.
“Don’t meet that man. Please. I’m begging you. This is the first request I’m making of you.”
Her mother spoke. There was pleading in her voice. Not a command, but a plea. And Sea-ah understood. She understood why her mother had spoken this way. Why she had remained silent all this time. Her mother had been watching her own mistakes repeat in her daughter. And she knew how terrifying that was.
“Mom…”
Sea-ah spoke. But the next words wouldn’t come. She didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t lie, and she couldn’t tell the truth either. Because even she didn’t know the truth.
“Don’t go to Gangnam right now.”
Her mother said again.
“How do you know that?”
Sea-ah asked. She knew that Do-hyun had told her, but it was still a mystery how her mother could predict her actions so accurately.
“Because you’re my daughter. Because I’m your mother.”
Her mother answered. It wasn’t an explanation to her question. It was simply existence. The existence of a mother. That explained everything. A mother sees her daughter. Regardless of what she thinks or what she says. A mother knows. Because she knows the path she has walked. And she sees her daughter walking the same path.
Sea-ah continued walking without hanging up the phone. Not toward Gangnam Station, but in the opposite direction. She turned away from the station entrance. As if her feet were defying her will. But it was her will. She just didn’t want to admit it.
“Sea-ah?”
Her mother called. Silence had stretched out. Sea-ah wasn’t speaking.
“I’m here.”
Sea-ah said. Her voice was small.
“Where are you?”
“Hongdae. I’m still in Hongdae.”
“You didn’t go to Gangnam?”
Her mother asked.
“Not yet.”
Sea-ah answered. It wasn’t a lie. Not yet. But she could. Anytime. If she didn’t hear her mother’s voice. If her mother’s hand didn’t hold her back.
That was the problem. Her mother’s hand.
Sea-ah looked at her own hands. They were trembling. Every three seconds. Regularly. And Sea-ah knew that the trembling wouldn’t stop. This was permanent. The way her body betrayed her. The way her nerves defied her will. That was Sea-ah’s body.
“Sea-ah, are you listening? Do you feel like you need to do something right now? Like you need to save someone? Like you have to abandon yourself to be saved?”
Her mother asked. It wasn’t a question. It was pulling out what was inside Sea-ah and exposing it to the outside world. Like a surgeon opening a patient’s body with a scalpel to remove a tumor.
“Yes.”
Sea-ah answered. For the first time, honestly.
“That’s a lie. That’s not love—it’s addiction. That’s not responsibility—it’s guilt. That’s not salvation—it’s self-deception.”
Her mother’s voice became sharp. Like a knife. That knife pierced through Sea-ah’s chest. Precisely. Precisely. Precisely.
“Then what should I do?”
Sea-ah asked. Her voice completely shattered, as if someone had trampled her vocal cords.
Her mother paused. Through the phone came the sound of Jeju’s ocean. Or perhaps her mother’s breathing. The two were hard to distinguish. Her mother was the ocean. Sea-ah already knew that.
“Don’t go to Gangnam. Come to me instead.”
Her mother said.
“To Jeju?”
Sea-ah asked.
“Yes. To Jeju.”
Her mother answered. And in that moment, Sea-ah realized something. She realized that what she would say was already decided. What she would think was already determined. Where her feet would go was already set.
Sea-ah continued walking without hanging up. In the opposite direction from Gangnam Station. She came out of the station entrance and onto the street. She hailed a taxi. The driver was a young man. Early thirties. Tired face.
“Where are you headed?”
The driver asked.
“Gangnam Station.”
Sea-ah said. And she heard her mother’s voice through the phone.
“Sea-ah?”
“I’m here, Mom.”
Sea-ah said. But she knew she was lying. She said Gangnam Station. But that was a lie. Where she was actually going was still undecided. Where her feet would lead was still unclear. She was just sitting in the taxi, phone in hand. And the taxi began to move. Without knowing where.
It was headed toward Gangnam Station.
Sea-ah looked at her hands. They were trembling. Every three seconds. Regularly. And Sea-ah already knew that the trembling wouldn’t stop. This wasn’t her decision. This was her body’s decision. Her nerves’ decision. Her DNA’s decision. The DNA of a mother who carried thirty years of regret.
“Sea-ah, where are you right now?”
Her mother asked. Her voice through the phone had grown weaker. As if the signal was about to cut out.
“In a taxi.”
Sea-ah answered.
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know.”
Sea-ah answered honestly.
“Ah, Sea-ah.”
Her mother sighed. That sigh reached Sea-ah’s ears. Traveling from Jeju to Seoul. Thirty years of sighing. The sigh of every haenyeo mother.
“Don’t go to Gangnam Station.”
Her mother said again.
“I understand.”
Sea-ah said. And whether that was a lie or the truth, even Sea-ah herself didn’t know.
The taxi continued moving. Toward Gangnam Station. Leaving Hongdae, heading south. Cars passed ahead, behind, and beside. All moving toward their destinations. All seeming to know where they were going. But Sea-ah didn’t. Sea-ah alone didn’t know her destination.
“Sea-ah?”
Her mother spoke again. Her voice had grown even quieter.
“Yes.”
Sea-ah answered.
“Do you know how old I was when I met your father?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your age.”
Her mother said.
Sea-ah held her breath. She thought about her age now. Twenty-four. She was twenty-four. And her mother was saying she had met her father at the same age. The meaning was clear. The point where she was standing now was the same point where her mother had met her father. The mistake she was about to make was the same mistake her mother had made. The place she was about to go was the same place her mother had gone.
“And do you know how old I am now?”
Her mother asked.
“No.”
Sea-ah answered.
“Fifty-four.”
Her mother said.
Thirty years. Thirty years of difference. From when her mother was twenty-four and met her father until now.
“Do you know what I want from you?”
Her mother asked.
“What?”
Sea-ah asked.
“I want you to do what I couldn’t do. I want you to pick up what I threw away. I want you to rekindle what I burned out.”
Her mother said. Her voice trembled.
“What is it?”
Sea-ah asked.
“Yourself.”
Her mother answered.
At that moment, the taxi arrived at the entrance to Gangnam Station. The driver turned around.
“We’ve arrived.”
The driver said.
Sea-ah looked at her hands. They were trembling. And she knew that she should get out of the taxi. She knew that she should enter Gangnam Station. She knew that she should meet Kang Ri-u.
But she also knew that she couldn’t.
“No, turn around.”
Sea-ah said to the driver.
“Where to?”
The driver asked.
“Jeju.”
Sea-ah answered.
“Jeju? We can’t drive there. You’ll need to take a plane…”
“The airport.”
Sea-ah said.
Her mother’s voice came through the phone.
“Sea-ah?”
“Yes, Mom. I’m going.”
Sea-ah said.
“Where?”
“To Jeju. To you.”
Sea-ah answered.
And in that moment, Sea-ah knew. She knew what she had lost. She knew what she had abandoned. And now she knew what she needed to reclaim. It wasn’t Kang Ri-u. It wasn’t about saving anyone. It was herself.
The taxi moved toward Incheon International Airport. Through the night-time Seoul. All the lights were on. Everything was illuminated. But Sea-ah’s eyes were closed. Phone pressed to her ear. Listening to her mother’s breathing. Feeling that it was the same as her own.
The road to Jeju. It was a road back to the past. A road to find what she had abandoned. A road to rekindle what she had burned out.
Sea-ah looked down at her hands. They were trembling. Every three seconds. Regularly. But now that trembling felt different. It wasn’t fear. It was decision. It was will.
The road to Jeju. It was the only choice she could make.
[END OF CHAPTER 143]