So I finally made a decision I never imagined making: to go to South Korea to see my daughter with my own eyes. I didn’t tell her anything.
For a 63-year-old woman who had never been on a plane and had never left Brazil, that was huge.
I asked a neighbor for help to buy the ticket and organize the documents. The flight seemed to have no end. My hands turned pale from squeezing the arm of the seat. When I arrived at the airport, I was bewildered by the crowd and by the language I didn’t understand. I took a taxi and went to the address my daughter had given me.
It was a two-story house, in a quiet, elegant neighborhood of Seoul. I rang the doorbell. No one answered. The front gate wasn’t locked, so I walked in slowly. The garden was well-tended, but it was cold. There were no voices, no television sound, no sign of life.
I approached the main door with my hand shaking on the handle. I took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
At that moment, I froze.
The room was spacious, too clean, almost soulless. Everything was neatly arranged, as if it were a house decorated for sale, but there was no trace of human life. No loose shoes, no hanging coats, no smell of food or coffee—nothing that makes a house home.
I called softly:
— Isabela…
No one answered.
The flowers on the table were plastic, cold to the touch. I walked further inside. The kitchen was spotless, without a single stain of grease. The fridge was almost empty: just a few bottles of water and wilted fruit.
I went up to the second floor.
There were three doors.
I opened the first one. It was a room with only one bed, the quilt stretched impeccably, without the slightest sign that two people slept there. The wardrobe was full of women’s clothes; there was not a single piece of men’s clothing.
My chest started to tighten.
The second bedroom looked like an office, too tidy, almost never used. There were no photographs, no personal effects of Min-jun. It was as if he had never existed there.
I opened the last door.
And my legs almost gave way.
