The loud voices of street vendors rang in my ears.
Before me stretched another world entirely.

The scent of spices stung my nose. The sweet-tart taste of pomegranate juice—my first—lingered on my tongue. In the Muslim Quarter of Xi’an, I surrendered myself to these unfamiliar sensations.

The gloom from a failure to buy a SIM card had already vanished.

I took photos, but the camera couldn’t truly capture the vibrancy of the street. It is all unfamiliar to me—The noodles mixed by dark soy sauce and peanut paste, lamb skewers with strong spices, flatbread baked in clay ovens, and teppan-style ice cream made from crushed fresh fruit. And also, souvenirs, toys, and strange goods lined the stalls.

In the crowd, many of them were travellers just like me, but some locals were living their daily lives. Walking through the street surrounded by people speaking a language not understandable, makes me feel like I am part of their world.

The Muslim Quarter began as a place where Arab traders, arriving via the Silk Road, settled after marrying Han Chinese women.

What started as the union of two different peoples became a community—
a culture—
that continues to this day.

It was nothing like the ruins my own family had become.

The merging of two cultures created something new—a continuous identity.

But in the case of my family, two people became one, but never truly. My parents’ marriage, only held together loosely by legal ties and children, should have been predicted from first place; it would be doomed somehow.

And at the start of that family—

was me.

---

One day in December 1988, just before Christmas, a healthy baby girl was born—
weighing 4.5 kilograms.

My parents had married that May. It would have been impossible to deny that my existence played a role in that decision.

And so, I was born—
a girl as healthy as any other boy could have been.

I was so large that my mother couldn’t deliver me naturally; a C-section became inevitable.

Outside the operating room, my father waited.

“Congratulations. It’s a girl.”

He couldn’t hide his disappointment.

Without a word, he left the hospital with my uncle and went to drink. Bitter soju filled his glass.

When my mother finally opened her eyes after the long surgery, the first person she saw was not her husband, nor her child—
but her mother-in-law.

My grandmother was furious. She scolded my mother for not giving birth to a grandson. My mother said nothing in return.

After my grandmother left, my mother lay alone in the hospital room, swallowing both pain and sorrow. A nurse placed the crib beside her bed.

My mother pushed it away with her foot.

She knew it wasn’t my fault—
And yet, she resented me anyway.

“But when I started seeing my own face in yours… I couldn’t hate you anymore.”

That’s how she remembered it.

No matter what had happened between her and my father, she always said she never regretted having me.

To her, my siblings and I were the only jewels she had gained from a barren marriage.

And yet, I often wondered—
If she hadn’t had me, would she have gone through with that marriage at all?

My mother took pride in her work. Since her teens, she had sold hanbok at Gwangjang Market and earned good money. Even now, when she talks about those days, her face still lights up.

If she hadn’t married then—
if she hadn’t had me—

Wouldn’t she have lived a better life?

It was my father’s decision, based on patriarchal beliefs, that kept her at home. She left her job, struggled with housework, which she wasn’t used to. Even she had to take care of my uncle, whom my father had brought without warning.

And then, after all that, she was scolded simply because her first child was a girl.

Even though the doctor had already told them the baby’s sex during pregnancy.

But my father and grandmother clung stubbornly to their expectation of a son. They convinced themselves—because of her diet, the shape of her belly, or just a feeling—that it had to be a boy.

And when that expectation failed, all the disappointment fell on my mother.

A man and a woman met.
They married.
They had a child.

A family was born.

---

“You came here alone? That’s amazing!”

The hot pot party was simple. Skewered ingredients were dipped into broth and eaten. There were more vegetables than meat, but considering it was free, I had no complaints.

With a beer in hand, I picked at the food and made idle conversation with strangers at the table.

A group of middle-aged women from the Netherlands looked at me with something like admiration. For a moment, they reminded me of my mother.

So I just smiled.

If I opened my mouth, I felt like all the complaints I had been holding back would come spilling out.

After eating enough, I returned to my room. A was still asleep, unmoving.

I washed up lightly and lay down, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling—
Or rather, the underside of the bunk above me.

I recalled what happened today in my mind.

It felt like a short film that was drifting past me as a dream.

I quickly picked up my phone and uploaded the photos to Instagram. Nothing extraordinary, but I wrote about it as though it had been.

Then I messaged my mother—small things about what I had done and eaten.

Her reply came almost instantly.

And for no reason at all, my chest tightened.

After the divorce, my mother’s attempt to stand on her own seemed fragile. I had thought she would recover quickly—she had always been strong, composed.

I was wrong.

And I couldn’t be any real help to her.

We would sometimes sit together over a small table, sharing drinks and conversation—but never the things that truly mattered.

And when I insisted on leaving, she supported my decision.

We both needed time to heal.

[I love you. Sleep well, my daughter.]

Instead of worry, she chose to express love.

I wasn’t used to it. It made the back of my neck feel strangely ticklish. At the same time, tears welled up in my eyes.

I couldn’t clearly remember her face from that morning—
And suddenly, I wanted to go back and see her.

[I love you too. Good night.]

I answered her in the same way.

A daughter who had never been particularly affectionate—sending words she had rarely ever said before. I even added a heart-filled emoji.

When everything was done,

I finally closed my eyes.

It wasn’t a comfortable bed. But exhaustion pulled me under before I could even notice.

My longing for my mother, my stubborn refusal to return, the residue of a past stained with tangled emotions—

all of it washed over me as I drifted into sleep.

And just like that,

The first day of my escape came to an end.