Page 1 of The Way Back Home

Seyeon

34 Years Old

The last midterm was graded at four p.m. By seven, the only sound I want to hear for the rest of my life is pork belly sizzling on a tabletop grill. It’s the official soundtrack of freedom, at least the kind of freedom a private academy teacher gets twice a year. The air in the restaurant is hazy with steam and the savory perfume of grilled meat, punctuated by the clinking of soju glasses and the rising volume of our chatter.

We’re a dozen strong tonight, the entire humanities department letting out a collective sigh of relief that’s been building for weeks. Ms. Kang, who teaches calculus, is already two shots in and laughing so hard she’s snorting. Even the principal, a man who usually looks like he’s carrying the weight of every parent’s expectations on his shoulders, has loosened his tie.

“I swear,” Mr. Park from the history department slurs, pointing a pair of tongs at no one in particular, “if I have to read one more essay claiming the Joseon Dynasty fell because of aliens, I’m quitting and becoming a farmer.”

We all laugh, a wave of commiseration washing over the table. We’ve all been there. We trade our own war stories from the grading trenches—the baffling answers, the creative excuses for late submissions, the one kid who just wrote ‘I don’t know’ in elegant calligraphy for every question. It’s a ritual, this airing of grievances. It binds us together.

Beside me, Taesung nudges my arm, his phone already in hand. The conversation, as it always does when you get a group of thirty-somethings together, eventually drifts from work to home. “Look at this picture my wife sent me,” he says, his voice soft with a pride that’s still brand new.

On the screen is a tiny, scrunched-up face wrapped in a pink blanket. His daughter, Yuna, all of six weeks old. The phone gets passed around, a chorus of oohs and aahs following it down the table as everyone offers their compliments.

I lean over for a better look when it comes back to him. “She looks just like your wife, hyung,” I say, smiling. “Beautiful.”

Taesung beams, his face lighting up. “Doesn’t she? Thank goodness for that. My side of the family has faces built for radio.” He laughs. He swipes to another picture, this one of his wife holding the baby, her expression serene. He soaks it in for a moment before his eyes land on me again, a thoughtful glint in them.

“You know,” he starts, lowering his voice a little. “My wife has a younger cousin. Just started her internship at one of the big conglomerates. Good kid. Smart.” He leans a bit closer, the smell of soju and grilled garlic on his breath.

I feel the familiar, gentle pressure of a well-meaning friend trying to solve the perceived problem of my single status. It’s a conversation I’ve had in many different forms for the last decade.

“I could put in a good word,” Taesung offers, his eyes earnest. “She’s a really sweet girl. Pretty, too. I think you two would get along.”

I shake my head, smiling faintly as I wave off the offer. “Thanks, hyung, but I’m not really interested right now.”

Taesung’s brows knit together, confused. “Why not? You’re single, aren’t you?”

I shrug, reaching for my glass. “Just busy, I guess. Not really looking to date anyone at the moment.”

He frowns, clearly not satisfied with that answer. “I’ve never even seen you with anyone since you started working here. Not once. You sure you’re not secretly married or something?”

Before I can answer, Saemi pipes up from across the table, a mischievous glint in her eye. She teaches literature, and we went to the same university, though she was a year behind me. “Oh, please. He dated plenty back in college. Seyeon was actually pretty popular with our whole graduating class.”

The table’s attention shifts, several pairs of eyebrows lifting with interest. Ms. Kang leans in, her earlier drunken giggles replaced by curiosity. “Really? Our quiet little Seyeon?”

I feel heat creeping up my neck and wave a hand, trying to brush it off. “That was a long time ago. I was young.”

But Saemi’s not done, a grin spreading across her face as she warms to the story. “I remember there was this girl in our third year, what was her name … Jieun? She cried outside the lecture hall for an entire afternoon after he broke things off with her. Followed him around campus for weeks trying to get him to take her back.”

A round of laughter breaks out, a few playful whistles thrown in for good measure. Mr. Park slaps the table. “Our Seyeon? A heartbreaker? I don’t believe it.”

“It wasn’t like that,” I protest, though my protests only seem to fuel their amusement further.

Taesung, still grinning, turns to me with curiosity now coloring his expression. “So what happened? Why don’t you ever seem interested in anyone anymore?”

I take a sip of my drink, considering the question for a moment. “I don’t know. I guess I just outgrew it. Mellowed out after I became a teacher, I think.”

The conversation moves on without me, and I let it, my gaze dropping to the half-empty glass in front of me while Saemi launches into more details about poor Jieun’s dramatic exit from our lecture hall all those years ago. The words blur into background noise. My mind’s drifted somewhere else, back to years I don’t visit too often anymore.

Then my phone buzzes against my thigh, vibrating through the pocket of my slacks. I pull it out and my mother’s name lights up the screen. A small, automatic smile tugs at my mouth. She rarely calls this late.

“Sorry, I need to take this,” I say, already pushing my chair back. A few of my coworkers wave me off without much interest, still caught up in Saemi’s story.

I step outside into the cool evening air, the noise of the restaurant fading behind the door as it swings shut. The street’s quiet, just the hum of traffic a block over and a laugh drifting from a bar down the road. I answer, bringing the phone to my ear.

“Hi, Mom, what’s going on?”