Prelude:I am writing this now, realizing I have never taken a moment to write about the day my mom passed. In my mind, I have reflected on that day a million times, reviewing what happened, but this is the first time I’m putting it into words.

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I was 25 years old, living in Seoul, Korea. My parents were in Busan, South Korea, about a five-hour drive away. Earlier that year, in January, I had moved from my hometown of Busan to start my first job in the capital, Seoul.

In November that same year, my colleague and I had a meeting with a high-ranking executive from a client company. We were presenting software designed to manage the operations of a gasoline and oil company.

Mid-morning, I received a call from my dad. He said, “Mom just passed…” In that moment, my entire being froze, and everything around me became blurry. Without a word, my colleague handed me 50,000 won, knowing I would need it for a flight to return home immediately.

On the way home, I didn’t know what to do. I just boarded the transportation. Only one thought filled my mind: “Mom is no longer alive. She’s not here with me on this earth.” I tried to hold back my tears, but they flowed continuously from Seoul to Busan—on the subway, the flight, the bus, and as I walked.

I called close friends from a payphone booth. “Mom passed away. I’m going home now,” I said. It was a short call.

That afternoon, I arrived home. I opened the door and walked into the living room. For the first time in my life, I walked into my home knowing that my mom was gone. Two aunts greeted me. I went straight to the room where my mother lay behind a ByeongPoong (a standing room divider), sat down, and burst into tears.

If it were a movie, this would be where the scene cuts to another. My memory is blurred from that point onward; I no longer remember the exact timeline. Many family members and friends came, and my aunts prepared food for the guests.

In the room where my mother passed, a setup was prepared. My mother lay there, separated by the room divider. On a large table were incense, candles, and a few offerings of food.

When guests arrived, they would make two deep bows and a half-bow to the family of the deceased.

All of my close friends from college and my colleagues at Hyundai IT visited within one or two days. It was an incredible show of friendship, considering that it took an entire day to travel from Seoul to Busan and back. Most of them were working in Seoul by then.

Some of my lifelong friends and I walked from my house to the bus station late at night. It was a 20-minute walk in the dark, with only dim streetlights to guide us. I am forever grateful to my friends who supported me during that awful time.

Day and night lost meaning during those days, as guests kept coming constantly.

On the third day, we held the funeral service. We traveled by car to our family’s hometown cemetery. In the mountains, we walked a long way to the burial site, where we buried my mother next to my grandparents’ graves.

At the burial site, my grandparents and my mother were laid to rest. I was told that the next spot was reserved for my father. Fourteen years later, however, when my father passed, he was cremated and enshrined at the SGI Memorial Park near Incheon, South Korea.

Since the moment my mother passed, my life has changed. I felt like I no longer had solid ground to stand on. A question weighed on my mind: What now? How do I live? A deep emptiness consumed me.

I returned to my daily life in Suwon, working in Yongin at Hyundai’s research center. In the evenings and on weekends, I went to Seoul to prepare for the TOEFL and GRE exams, as I considered graduate school in the U.S. I wasn’t serious about studying abroad initially, but the loss of my mother pushed me to seriously consider it, as I felt I had no one left in Korea. It almost felt like I needed to leave.

Three and a half years later, I moved to the U.S. to pursue graduate studies.

There are a few moments in life that become turning points. The first for me was losing my mother in 1997. My life is divided into “before” and “after.” I’m sure the rest of my family felt the same.

The grief was indescribable. It would surface at random times and places. When it hit deeply, I cried like an animal. I imagine the only grief greater than losing a mother would be losing one’s own child, though I don’t even want to imagine that.

Now, I know and feel that she is always with me. She has never really left, and our bond remains unbroken.

If I could go back, I would spend more time with her. I would ask her about her life, her thoughts, and her feelings. I would give her more hugs and express my love through concrete actions, instead of keeping those feelings inside.

I talk to her in my heart every day.

Mom, thank you for all your love and care. I loved listening to your stories. Your confidence, courage, and humor always brightened my heart. When we meet again, I will repay you for all you’ve given me. You made me who I am today, and I am eternally grateful to you. I am the luckiest person in the world to have had you as my mother. I love you, eternally.