Then two.
Then five.
Eventually, I stopped asking when she was coming home.
Only the money kept arriving.
Every single year, without fail, exactly eighty thousand dollars appeared in my account along with the same short message:
“Mom, take good care of yourself. I’m doing well.”
That word — well — became the part that worried me most.
Because if she was truly well, why did the message never say anything more?
We had only one video call during those twelve years.
She was still beautiful.
But something in her eyes had changed.
She smiled, but it never quite reached them.
She always seemed distracted.
Always rushed.
Always eager to end the conversation.
One day I finally asked the question I had been carrying for years.
“Why don’t you ever come home?”
She went quiet.
For several seconds neither of us spoke.
Then she forced a small smile and said:
“I’m very busy, Mom.”
That was all.
I never asked again.
Sometimes mothers stop asking questions because they are afraid of hearing answers they cannot bear.
The years continued to pass.
The money she sent changed my life.
I repaired the roof.
I renovated the kitchen.
I replaced furniture that had been older than my daughter herself.
People told me how lucky I was.
But I often wondered what kind of luck leaves you eating dinner alone every night.
Every Christmas, I set an extra place at the table for Mary Lou.
I cooked her favorite stew.
I imagined hearing her footsteps coming through the front door.
And when the house became quiet again, I cried where nobody could see me.
Twelve years.
Twelve birthdays.
Twelve Christmases.
Twelve years is far too long for a mother to go without holding her child.
Finally, I made a decision.
I was going to Korea.
I didn’t tell Mary Lou.
