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“I am sorry to interrupt, Sajang, but the very mission of this company has been to provide opportunities for girls and women who do not have the good fortune to attend a good university. The mission is in jeopardy due to your actions,” interjects a female board member. Older, with a head of black-and-white hair, she speaks with authority. Others are listening to her.
“I realize that and I will humbly step aside should the board consider that the best course of action. However, I think it is obvious why I have been devoted to single mothers, the issues of adoption, and the promotion of women’s rights. I have been supporting Hara financially for some time. While I may not have been physically present, from the moment I’ve been able to I have done my duty toward my daughter.”
“And what does Hara Wilson say?” questions the older woman. All eyes swing toward me like a bright spotlight. The desire to shrink back behind my mother—either one of them—is strong.
After two deep gulps that do nothing to settle my nerves, I step forward.
“Hello. Thank you for having me.” My voice is quaking. I’m not a good public speaker. What was the joke the famous comedian once made? That you’d rather be in the coffin than giving the eulogy? I’ve never felt so seen by a joke. I would give anything right now to be in a pine box in the center of the room rather than standing here in front of a bunch of strangers who are twice my age and are looking at me as if I stole money from their pockets.
“I am Choi Hara, daughter of Choi Wansu, and sister to Choi Yujun.” I don’t look in Yujun’s direction as I recite this little speech. “I am grateful for the choices Eomoni has made for me. I have lived a very good life in America with my adoptive mother, Ellen. Eomoni sent us money and paid for my college education and my apartment. I am grateful for all the opportunities she gave to me. She should be praised”—I blow out a deep breath—“and not vilified.” I’m not sure if there’s a direct translation, but everyone seems to understand. “If I were able to vote, I would keep Choi Wansu as sajang.”
“What about the rumors about your relationship with Choi Yujun-ssi?” This comes from a male wearing a suit that looks to be one size too tight.
Yujun opens his mouth but stops when I hold up my hand. “I love him like the brother I don’t have.”
The man grows disappointed. It wasn’t the answer he wanted. Before he can ask another question, Wansu jumps in and says something in Korean. It must be directed toward Yujun, because he stands and bows. “I am in agreement with Hara-ssi.”
Wansu wants him to say something more, but he’s done. I finally meet his gaze and I’m surprised to see determination rather than anger. A spark kindles inside me. This is not the look of someone who’s giving something up, but of someone who is fighting for something. What does it mean? I curse myself for not talking to him before. Have I made the wrong decision? Bomi and Wansu and Ellen all think this is the right course, but is there a way out I haven’t considered?
“What position will you be giving your daughter?” the man asks.
Wansu is startled—so startled she replies in Korean. “Museun marieyo?”
“What do I mean? Your daughter should be given a position here so others can see she is a valued member of our family. That is what our company stands for. We are a family. We cannot ignore our family.”
“Yes, I agree. She should be given a job,” Yujun speaks up. This wasn’t part of the plan. My eyes fly to meet his again. He stares boldly back. Trust me, he seems to be saying.
“I do not speak Korean,” I interject. Work here? In Korea? Next to Yujun? This is not a good idea.
“She can help with the English translations. Hara works at the American magazine Perfect Home as a copy editor. She can do the same for us as we move forward in our globalization endeavors,” Yujun suggests.
I need him to stop being so helpful. I can’t stay here in Korea, be in the same city as Yujun and not want to be with him. I need an ocean and a continent or three between us. I need to return to the cows and the cornfields, the endless discussion of insurance premiums, pizza, and pancakes, and forget that this country, this man, exists. I try to telegraph this to him, but he is pretending not to notice.
A murmur spreads among the board members. They like this scheme. Not only do they like it, but they are seriously considering it. I turn to Wansu. Surely she will put a stop to this, but the woman is avidly watching the other members, gauging their reaction, calculating a hundred different scenarios, and when a small smile crosses her lips, I know I’ve lost.
