Right before boarding, she hugged me so tightly it hurt.

“Mom,” she whispered through tears, “please don’t hate me.”

I remember pulling back in confusion. “Why would I ever hate you?”

But she only shook her head and cried harder.

For years afterward, that moment replayed in my mind at random times. Usually late at night when the house felt too quiet.

The first year after she moved, we talked often. She told me about the food, the busy streets, and how different everything felt. But slowly, the calls became shorter. Less detailed. More careful.

Then the money started arriving.

Exactly one hundred thousand dollars every Christmas morning.

Always with the same message:

“Mom, take care of yourself. I’m doing well.”

At first, I cried when I received it because I thought it was proof she still loved me. I fixed the roof. Paid off old debts. Replaced my broken washing machine.

But after enough years passed, the money stopped feeling comforting.

It started feeling like compensation.

Neighbors constantly told me how lucky I was. They saw the renovated kitchen, the new windows, the reliable car in my driveway, and assumed I was living some perfect life.

What they didn’t see was me setting an extra plate at the dinner table every Christmas out of habit.

They didn’t see me cooking Mary Lou’s favorite pot roast every December even though nobody else would eat it.

And they definitely didn’t see me crying quietly while washing dishes in an empty house.

Around the seventh year, I started noticing changes during our video calls. Mary Lou still looked beautiful, but there was a tension in her face that hadn’t been there before. Her eyes darted away whenever I asked personal questions.

One time I asked to speak to Kang Jun.

She froze for a second before answering. “He’s busy working.”

Another time I asked why they never visited.

Her smile disappeared completely.

“It’s complicated, Mom.”

Then she changed the subject immediately.

I wanted to push harder, but fear stopped me every time. Sometimes mothers avoid certain questions because deep down they already sense the answers.

Then I turned sixty-three.

One cold December evening, I looked around my quiet living room and suddenly realized how much time had passed. My knees hurt climbing stairs now. My hair had gone completely gray. Twelve years had disappeared while I waited for a daughter who never came home.