Growing up, the most painful part of my parents’ endless arguments wasn’t the fights themselves
but being pulled into the middle of them.
My mother often demanded that I confront my father directly.
“You’re the oldest, and your father respects you the most.
If you cut ties with him and call him out on his wrongs, he’ll regret it and come around,” she would say.
But my father, despite his shortcomings as a husband, was nothing short of loving and warm toward us, his children. Confronting him harshly at my mother’s insistence felt wrong.
It was agonizing to see him hurt by my words, which were not my own but my mother’s, spoken through me like her unwilling proxy.
From a young age, I would urge my mother to divorce my father.
Their constant fights, the tense atmosphere at home, and being forced to mediate as a child were unbearable.
I didn’t just ask once.
Throughout middle school, high school, and even college,
I encouraged my mother to leave the marriage whenever their fights reached a boiling point.
And each time, she would unleash her anger at my father with threats of separation:
“The kids don’t even want to live with you! You’re ruining this family. You never bring home enough money, and you never give me peace of mind!”
My father wasn’t one to take such words quietly, and their arguments would escalate, leaving scars on everyone involved.
The Affair
Years after I got married, their fights reached a new level when my father had an affair.
His infidelity was devastating, an undeniable betrayal.
But to me, it also seemed like a misguided act of vengeance
—a desperate attempt to reclaim some sense of power in a marriage where he often felt belittled and unappreciated.
I couldn’t say this to my mother, of course.
As her daughter and a fellow woman, I couldn’t excuse my father’s actions,
but I could understand, to some extent, why he had strayed.
When my mother discovered the affair, she was shattered.
From across the ocean, I could feel her despair over the phone.
I took a week off work, leaving my seven-year-old son with my husband, and flew to Daegu to support her.
My arrival seemed to bring her some solace.
She proudly told everyone she knew that her eldest daughter had come all the way from America because of her unfaithful husband.
My father, on the other hand, couldn’t meet my eyes.
I still remember the shame and regret in his demeanor.
My mother found satisfaction in his guilt, but I felt a deep sense of sadness watching him.
The Choice Not Made
For the first time, I thought my mother would finally follow through with her threats of divorce.
Yet, despite her declarations, she stayed.
When I asked why, she claimed my father refused to let her go.
By then, I had stopped asking questions.
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