5. Jules
CHAPTER 5
Jules
There are a few things I hold dear. Family ranks at the top, followed closely by my books and the precious privacy I cling to like a raccoon with a half-eaten taco.
Which is why, on Sundays when I’m not schlepping plates and forcing smiles at patrons of a restaurant, I’m right here—immersed in the comforting chaos of home.
Pots bubbling away, something savory crackling on the stove, and the air thick with the irresistible garlic, soy sauce, and bickering.
And, like clockwork, the scene unfolds. Mom and Halmeoni—my sweet, fiery grandmother—are back in the kitchen, deep in their weekly battle over the perfect recipe.
This time, it’s bulgogi. A savory symphony of thinly sliced beef, marinated and grilled to perfection until it’s melt-in-your-mouth tender and bursting with flavor. But the debate could just as easily be about something as extravagant as shrimp scampi or as humble as homemade mac and cheese.
Their motto might as well be: Have stovetop, will squabble .
And as much as we cherish our deep Korean roots, our father’s American heritage runs just as deep. We kids straddle both worlds effortlessly— tteokguk , the traditional rice cake soup that promises good luck and a fresh start, is a non-negotiable on New Year’s.
Frankly, if Angi, Colby, and I get our way, we’re firing up the grill for a good old-fashioned burger burn with bacon, cheese, and thick-cut fries. Both worlds colliding into a spectacular display of fireworks—who we are, right on our plates.
Dad, ever the diplomat and the smartest man I know, wisely steers clear of the kitchen. I find him comfortably hiding in the den, the Yankees game on low enough not to draw attention, eyes darting between the Times crossword puzzle and the screen.
I lean over his shoulder, instantly spotting the mostly blank spaces for twelve across.
Gradual build-up of romantic tension, often found in contemporary novels (8 letters).
“Need some help with that one, Dad?”
“Hey, kiddo.” He wraps an arm around my waist for a side hug. “I knew your reading habits would pay dividends in the future.” He looks up at me, blinking in that way he does when he’s trying to piece something together. “It’s something about romance. Starts with S-L.”
I crash onto the cushion next to him. “Slow burn,” I say deliciously.
“Slow...burn? That sounds painful. Is that because love hurts, like when your mother insists, after twenty-five years of marriage, that if I give her kimchi just one more try, it won’t numb my tastebuds?”
I grin. “It’s not about pain, Dad. Slow burn is when the romance takes its time, builds up all this irresistible tension before anything happens. You know, like in a Colleen Hoover book.”
He furrows his brow, clearly trying to connect the dots. “So, like in The Hunt for Red October ? The way Tom Clancy makes the tension slowly burn from distrust to a tentative alliance between Captain Ramius and Captain Mancuso?”
I can’t help but laugh, shaking my head. “No, nothing like that. Not unless Ramius and Mancuso discovered their undying love for one another and it led to a hot, steamy mano-a-mano shower scene.”
Dad deadpans, leveling me with a look. “First of all, mano means hand, not man. And second, I backpacked El Camino for months. That is definitely not what mano-a-mano means,” he chuckles.
“In male-male romance, it is,” I counter, grinning.
He arches an eyebrow, unamused. “I’m not even going to ask how my sweet, innocent youngest daughter knows that.”
“Probably best that way,” I say. “Then, think more like Edward and Bella from Twilight .”
He blinks, completely lost. “Who?”
I sigh, patting his arm. “You stick with Clancy. I’ll tackle the romance.”
I shove my hand into a bag of chips he’s miserably trying to hide in the corner of the couch. That’s when I notice his notepad.
One glance at it, and my stomach tightens. Angi’s name is scrawled across the page, along with a date, time, and location: midtown.
“Has she called?” I ask, the lightness of banter evaporating into thin air.
Dad exhales a heavy, frustrated breath, rubbing his temple as if he can massage away the tension. “No, but she tried withdrawing five hundred bucks from my account.” He points a stern finger at me, his eyes pleading despite the tough exterior. “Don’t tell your mother.”
My heart sinks, a familiar ache settling in my chest. It’s her pattern—Angi’s go-to move when life backs her into a corner. Once again, she’s drowning and has nowhere else to turn.
But Mom’s been firm, unwavering—no money until she comes home and checks into a program. Something, anything, to get her on the straight and narrow path to sobriety.
But knowing she’s still out there, struggling—it’s like a punch to the gut. The weight of it all presses down on me, but I nod, swallowing my worry, because what else can I do?
And no matter how much I try to keep it together, it tears at me little by little.
And for a former Marine, Dad is all soft teddy bear with a marshmallowy center—sweet, easily forgiving, and always the first to offer a second chance.
But by the way he’s about to rub all the skin off the back of his neck, even he’s at his wit’s end. Ghosted for months, only to be tapped for cash from the Bank of Dad? It’s wearing him down.
“Did you give it to her?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He shrugs, his expression a mix of resignation and worry. “I cleared two hundred. Though if I had five I would’ve given it to her. The thought that she might be out there, who knows where, doing who knows what...” His voice trails off, the weight of it all pressing down on both of us.
I lean in, close enough that our shoulders touch, offering silent support. “I know.” I pull out my phone, showing him the screen. “I text her every night with I love you to the moon and back ,” I say, adding, “Totally plagiarizing Sam McBratney for her.”
“You also pay her phone bill,” he adds, giving me that paternal look that makes me shrink a bit in my seat.
“I don’t want her without a phone. In case of an emergency.”
He boops my nose, a small, affectionate gesture that pulls a smile from me despite everything. “You’re mighty responsible for the youngest,” he says, then quickly shifts gears, trying to lift the mood. “And I hear you have a new job.”
“I was going to tell you, but if Mom knows, you know. And technically, I haven’t started yet.”
He drops the paper, mutes the TV, and turns fully toward me, his eyes bright. “I want details, and now that I’m retired, if you need a sidekick, count me in. I’ve got a trench coat and hat, and I’m a self-appointed expert in Clancy and all things espionage. I’m well-versed in the necessary three-letter agencies: FBI, CIA, MI6—and I can crack codes like it’s my day job.” He waves the crossword puzzle in front of me with a flourish.
I give him an appraising look, playing along. “Your credentials are pretty solid. But what about your rates?”
He leans back, that satisfied grin spreading across his face. “The usual family discount. ”
“So, free?”
“Exactly,” he replies with a wink. “So, what’s your first story, boss? Political scandal? Wall Street corruption?”
If only. Telling him I’m digging into the scandal of my past would have him hunting down Brian Bishop like a bloodhound, kicking down doors, and either giving him a piece of his mind or wrangling him into a headlock.
Rather than overcomplicate things, I flash a grin. “Let’s go with investigative.”
“Atta girl,” he says, his voice swelling with pride.
Mom’s voice echoes through the house like a dinner bell. “ Bap meokja! ” Translation: Let’s eat.
Dad jumps up, grabbing the bag of chips and disposing of the evidence into the trash with a guilty grin.
With his arm draped over my shoulders, we step outside, and the world shifts. The evening air is crisp, laced with the scent of pine and the hint of mountain laurel. It’s the kind of sanctuary that makes you forget there’s a city at all.
Out here, it’s nothing but green grass, towering trees, and the soft rustle of leaves. It’s like pure oxygen, a breath of fresh air that centers my soul.
We all take our seats as the Adirondacks rise majestically in the distance, the peaks bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. In less than an hour, the light will vanish, but Mom’s already prepared. Half a dozen tea candles flicker around a small vase of wildflowers that Halmeoni likely gathered on her morning walk.
“I tried something new,” my grandmother announces, holding up a bottle of convenience store cologne. With a dramatic flourish, she spritzes it into the air, and we all burst into laughter. It’s the kind that smells like a mix of Old Spice and too much aftershave.
Mom takes the bottle, slips on her reading glasses, and shakes her head with a smile and tsks. “This is for men.”
Happily, she nods. “I like it,” she insists, her chin lifting in defiance. “It reminds me of Harabeoji.”
Her words hit me with a wave of nostalgia. My grandfather, with one of us nestled in his arms, rocking in his chair as he hummed softly, his eyes fixed on the TV, watching anything from baseball to nature documentaries.
Halmeoni’s hand pats mine. “Juliana, jal hago ittda ,” she says, her Korean wrapping around me like a warm blanket on a cold night. Translation: You’re doing well, Juliana.
I nod, forcing a smile, though the weight of her words barely loosens the knot of doubt in my chest. News of my new job has spread like wildfire.
When I first started as a waitress, she called me a manager-in-training, destined to run the place with charm and authority.
Now, as an entry-level writer still proving my worth and praying they don’t find a reason to fire me, she probably thinks I’m on the fast track to editor in chief.
“I’m just starting out,” I say, my voice meek and as small as I feel.
“You are a Sun,” she reminds me, her tone gentle but oh, so very firm. “Your grandpa would be so proud.” Her hand cups my cheek, and this time, a genuine smile lifts my lips, chasing away some of the doubt.
Mom, ever the realist, swallows a bite and adds, “We all start somewhere.”
Dad sips his beer, his voice carrying that familiar, militant tone. “All you need is hard work and direction. And a few hundred sit-ups,” he teases.
“And a name,” I murmur, feeling my shoulders slump under the weight of it all.
He arches a stern brow, his gaze cutting right through me. “Is there something wrong with Juliana Grace Spenser?”
I shake my head. “I mean a pen name. My editor sort of insists.”
“Ah,” he says, leaning back with a knowing nod. “The old Richard Bachman/Stephen King conundrum.”
Mom chimes in, shaking her head. “More like Marguerite Annie Johnson and Maya Angelou.”
Then Halmeoni jumps in, because of course she does. “Or Anne Rice and Howard Allen Frances O’Brien.” We all freeze, confused as hell.
Casually, she snags a wonton with her chopsticks. “It’s true. She was named after her father. But the second she got bullied at school, she switched it to Anne.” We all just stare at her, and she points her chopsticks at us, daring us to question her. “True story.”
I’m inclined to believe because Halmeoni’s insatiable love of vampire romance means she knows everything there is to know about Anne Rice.
When our band had a competition in New Orleans, it was Halmeoni who gave us haunting details about the house Anne Rice owned, including the so-called “blood-red room” where she was rumored to write her most chilling scenes—though whether that was true or just folklore, no one could say.
Needless to say, I’ve learned not to trivialize my grandmother’s vast knowledge of Ms. Rice and her coven of the undead .
Eomma refills my glass, her eyes soft but serious. “It should be something that fits, something that carries a piece of who you are.”
I swallow back the lump in my throat, nerves dancing in my stomach. “I’ve decided on a first name. Sydney, with a Y.”
“Isn’t that a boy’s name?” Mom asks, her brow furrowing.
“You sound like my editor.”
Dad grins, giving me a knowing look. “After Sidney Sheldon? Or your old teddy bear?” He nods, approval clear in his eyes. “Either way, I like it. It’s playful but mature. And it could easily be a girl or a guy, which is the point, right? No one knows who you are.” He makes an ominous noise, wiggling his fingers in the air like he’s casting a spell.
Halmeoni taps a finger on the table, the sound sharp enough to cut through the noise in my head. “What did I tell you just moments ago, Juliana?”
I pause, her words pulling me back down to earth. “That Grandpa would be proud of me… and…”
“You are a Sun,” they all say together, the words ringing out like a chorus.
And they’re right. It’s my grandfather’s name. It’s our legacy.
“Sun,” I repeat, letting the word roll around in my mouth, testing the weight of it. It’s like something inside me clicks, a key turning in a lock I didn’t even know was there. “Yes. I’m a Sun.” My eyes widen as it hits me, and before I can stop myself, I’m throwing both arms around her in a fierce hug. “I love it.”
That night, after the kitchen is cleaned and the house has settled into its familiar quiet, and rather than swim upstream back to the city, I find myself back in my old bedroom, sinking into the comfort of my childhood bed. My cell casts a soft glow in the darkness.
With my social media primed and ready, Taylor’s been bombarding me with words of affirmation all day. Little nuggets of wisdom popping up on my phone like fortune cookies from a best friend who knows exactly when to push.
Poignant thoughts like Carpe Diem and The only way out is through . Or my personal favorite: I swear by all that’s Chanel, one post won’t kill you.
But the one that had me snort-laughing in the middle of dinner? Go big or go home , paired with a photo of a ridiculously big, brawny baker holding the biggest baguette I’ve ever seen. And, of course, he’s holding it right at his crotch.
Trust Taylor to nail that twisted blend of motivational imagery and uncensored, full-throttle porn.
My breath hitches, a swarm of butterflies tickling through my insides, and my fingers itch to dive into my account. But, what to write?
With a deep breath, I open Instagram, shove aside the anxiety that’s always waiting to devour me, and step into the creation of something that’s entirely mine.
My future.
This pen name isn’t just a name—it’s a declaration. A way to carry my heritage, my family, into this new chapter of my life, and finally leave the baggage behind.
The words begin to spill out, each one peeling away another layer of fear and the need to be perfect. I’m just being me.
I pick a photo from dinner, the vibrant spread of dishes that Halmeoni and Eomma crafted with so much love, and pair it with a shot of the Adirondacks at sunset—enduring, like the mountains themselves.
Then, I push my avatar into the spotlight. The image Taylor and I decided on. Me with thick, dark Audrey Hepburn Breakfast at Tiffany’s glasses, my hair down, my lips red, and a pen poised at my lips, the very picture of deep thought.
“Truth might be a wallflower, but every story deserves its moment to shine on the dance floor. And the best stories? They’re the ones that steal the spotlight when you least expect it and leave a mark on your heart.”
#NewJourneys #WritingWithHeart
I sign off @SydneySun and it feels so good, I hit post, and just like that, I’m out there.
No turning back.