Another Girl, Not Again
Soon enough, just as I'd predicted, Mom became pregnant with her third child. It was 1980—I was seven, Sori three.
Everybody was happy for us: neighbors, my father's coworkers, my friends, and especially my grandparents. All of them hoping that this time, finally, it would be a son. I assured them not to worry, that this time it would be a boy.
“Are you sure? How do you know?” the grown-ups would ask, amused.
“I just know,” I'd reply. Not a shred of doubt on my face or in my heart.
But I couldn't have known. Back then, doctors were prohibited from revealing the sex of the fetus so people wouldn't selectively terminate pregnancies. Despite my certainty, our family had to wait until the baby was born.
"I just know," I'd reply. Not a shred of doubt on my face or in my heart.
One February morning, when it was time, my father took Mom to the hospital. I don't remember who looked after Sori and me—perhaps we stayed alone together. What I do remember is how excited I was, waiting for my father to come home and confirm that we now had a baby brother.
That evening, when he returned alone, with Mom and the baby still at the hospital, he didn't seem in the mood to talk. But I assumed he was holding it in, trying to tease us. Sometimes he did that, just to be funny, though mostly it was pretty lame. This time, I figured, it was just another one of his jokes. Like wait for it. So I waited patiently, ready to jump and shout in joy.
But even after he took his time taking off his shoes and quenching his thirst by drinking straight from the kettle's spout, he stayed quiet. Just standing there, staring into space. I couldn't wait any longer.
“So, appa, we have a baby boy, right?”
“Nope,” he said flatly, without looking at me. “You have another baby sister.”
For a moment, I was so certain he was kidding. But if he were, I should see his mischievous grin, his telltale sign that always gave him away. This time, though, there was no grin, no sparkling eyes. Just pressed-thin lips and dull eyes.
If I pushed him just one more time, maybe I'd hear what I wanted to hear. “You're lying, right?”
“You heard me! We have a girl. Again! Damn it!”
That night, I left him alone. Sori and I kept to ourselves.
The next day, when Mom came home with the baby, whom they named Hyeri, I wasn't planning to welcome her at all. But the moment I laid eyes on her—her porcelain skin, rosy cheeks, tiny mouth puckering, delicate fingers curled into miniature fists—and got a whiff of her smell, that gentle, milky scent only newborns have, all the disappointment and frustration melted away. Everything about her was so precious, irresistible.
In that moment, it didn't matter that she was a girl. Sure, a brother would have been nice, but she was my sister, and that was what mattered most.
She was my sister, and that was what mattered most.
Now that we were a family of five, the house felt even more cramped. It had always been messy, I admit, but never like this. Baby supplies taking up space? Of course, that was expected. But I hadn’t expected things to never be put away: groceries in their black plastic bags sitting by the front door for days, the meal tray left in the same spot as we gathered around it again and again, picking at yesterday's side dishes, blankets from the previous night rumpled on the floor until we crawled under them again the next evening.
Another unmistakable change: my parents fought more often, and their fights were more intense. Before, they had occasional arguments, but no one really shouted or swore. Now, things were different. Their voices were raised, their words were sharper. The tension was palpable, the air charged with impatience and, sometimes, anger.
My father's drinking got worse, too.
He used to come home after work, buzzed, and check on us late at night when we were fast asleep. He’d stumble into our room, settle down beside Sori and me, and rub his stubbly chin against our cheeks. I’d wake up to the smell of booze and the prickling on my face. I didn’t mind, though, because he’d murmur, “Oh, my babies...” the whole time, and I liked hearing that. The only problem was trying not to smile, since I was supposed to be asleep.
But now, when he got drunk, he got stupid.
“I just want a boy,” he would wail, like his mom was dying, I’m not kidding. Imagine a drunken grown man crying loudly. It’s not sad; it’s pathetic. “Everybody at work has a boy but me.”
“Oh, just shut up!” Mom was ruthless. “You're drunk again. I'm so sick and tired of it.”
Before, if he was drunk and Mom got upset, he’d just sit quietly in a corner, looking sad. Then I would sit next to him in silence, hoping my presence might cheer him up. He’d smile weakly, pat my head, then crawl under the blanket to sleep. That would be it.
But now, he wouldn't just sit there and take it.
If Mom went on to say—which she often did—”I don't think it's me, it's you, there's something wrong with you,” that would set him off. He would kick whatever Mom was working on: dried anchovies being gutted, bean sprouts being trimmed, or even the meal tray we were eating on. We'd see anchovies, bean sprouts, bowls, and dishes fly into the air, hang there for a moment before raining down on us, around us.
I learned that helping her clean up the mess was a better way to support her than asking the obvious question. Of course she was not okay.
Sometimes if he was really pissed, he’d kick her in the side or smack her head too.
Then she’d yelp and ask, “Did you just kick me?” Her eyes incredulous but defiant.
“You want another? Keep it up, and you will.”
I think it was Mom's attitude when he got drunk that triggered his rage—not necessarily the fact that he didn’t have a son.
Because he always ended with the same line. “A woman is supposed to be sweet to her husband,” he'd growl. “But you treat me like a piece of crap. I know why—because you look down on me!”
The first few times it happened, I asked Mom if she was okay. But soon, this kind of violence became regular in our house, and I learned that helping her clean up the mess was a better way to support her than asking the obvious question. Of course she was not okay.
After the debris was picked up and the floor mopped, I'd go lie under the blanket next to Sori, who was sound asleep. Her breathing regular and peaceful, she made me wonder how she could sleep through the commotion.
With my eyes closed, I wished for just one thing: that Appa wouldn’t come home drunk tomorrow.
Not having a son wasn’t my father’s only source of unhappiness. He was also a deeply jealous man. There was a rice store where Mom would send me to buy rice—the government-sponsored kind, cheap and so poor in quality that we ate half and spit out the other half after chewing on husks and gravel. The owner was a kind man who never made me feel embarrassed when I had to say, “Mom said to charge it to our account,” unlike other shopkeepers with their sullen faces.
Yet he was the one my father was convinced my mother had a crush on.
“You like that man, don't you? You were all smiley and giggly,” my father would say, a corner of his mouth curled up. “You never act that way with me. Why don't you just go live with him?”
Usually he said this with a smirk, pretending to be joking. Then Mom’s response would determine what came next. I hoped she would tell him, “No, you’re wrong,” in a nice way, but most of the time, she wouldn’t let such an outrageous accusation slide without a fight.
“You don't make any sense,” she'd retort. “Do you want me to be upset and sullen with every man I talk to?”
It made total sense to me, so I nodded in agreement. Until she added, “You're jealous of anybody taller than you because you're so short, like a midget. You're a midget's poop bag.”
She had coined the term “a midget's poop bag” to mock him behind his back when she was alone with me. At five feet tall, he was indeed a short man—especially embarrassing for Mom, who stood five-foot-three. I was embarrassed by his height too; my father was the shortest dad I had ever known. But I knew it was wrong to admit that feeling to myself. At least he wasn't as short as a midget. (I let out a sigh of relief every time I thought about that.)
With my eyes closed, I wished for just one thing: that Appa wouldn't come home drunk tomorrow.
That term, however, was never supposed to be used when my father was around.
Because in the whole world, the last thing he wanted to hear—from anyone, let alone his own wife—was that. Because that word always made him punch her in the face.
“You call me that again,” he bared his teeth at her as her eyes welled with tears. No more defiance. “I’m going to kill you, fucking bitch!”
Not all violence requires alcohol. Sometimes it arrives stone-cold sober.
© 2025 The SteelMaker’s Daughter by Yuni J. All Rights Reserved.
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