Love does not disappear.

My dearest Yeon-seo,

I still don’t know how to write this. I have started and stopped a hundred times. Maybe you will never read it. Maybe you don’t care to. But I have to try.

The children ask for you every day. Ji-ho still waits by the door in the evenings, thinking you will walk through it. Haneul sleeps with your scarf wrapped around her small hands. They do not understand why their mother is gone. I do not know how to explain it. How can I tell them that the warmth they once knew is now a ghost? That the lullabies you used to sing are nothing but echoes in an empty room?

The house is quieter without you. But not in the peaceful way it once was, when you would hum while cooking, or when we would sit together after the children had fallen asleep, whispering about the future. Now, the silence feels heavier, like something pressing on my chest. Even the wind outside sounds like it is searching for something that is missing.

I know what he has promised you. I know what he gives you—things I never could. But you know as well as I do how this story ends. You are nothing more than a passing indulgence to him. One day, he will let go, and you will be left with nothing. Nothing except what you have thrown away. Do you think he will hold your hands when they are wrinkled? Do you think he will watch over you when you are sick? Do you think he will remember how you like your tea, or the way you squeeze your eyes shut when you laugh too hard?

But it is not too late. Not for Ji-ho, not for Haneul, not for us. There are a thousand reasons to come home—but if you need just one, let it be this: love does not disappear just because someone leaves.

Come back to us. Come back to the only place you were ever truly seen, truly loved, truly needed.

Kyung-min