Epilogue
Bea landed in Toronto just after noon. The second she stepped out of the airport, the cold bit at her cheeks, sharp and bracing, the kind of cold she had forgotten after months in the sun-drenched luxury of St. Ives.
She inhaled deeply. The scent of home. Clean winter air, a faint bite of exhaust. Hints of pine and something sweet wafted from a food truck parked just beyond the terminal.
Her stomach swooped with anticipation.
Her father spotted her first, bundled in his thick winter coat, a knitted scarf wrapped snugly around his neck. It was the same one her mother had forced on him last year. The moment their eyes met, his face broke into a grin, and he waved, his excitement as transparent as ever.
Her father grinned and crushed her in a hug, lifting her off the ground. “Mija,” he cooed, squeezing her tight. “Too skinny. You’re not eating enough.”
Bea let out a soft laugh, muffled against his chest. “Papa—”
“Your umma is making kimchi-jjigae,” he interrupted, already guiding her toward the car. “She told me to tell you to hurry, or she’ll eat it all herself.”
The house looked exactly the same: small, warm, filled with a love that lived in the details.
Family photos lined the walls, the giraffe height sticker still marking each year from when they first moved in when she was four.
The faint scent of fabric softener dwelt in the air, mingling with the warmth of freshly laundered blankets.
Her mother turned at the sound of the door, ladle in hand, eyes filling up with tears the second she saw Bea. “Aigoo, my baby.”
Bea was wrapped in another hug, one that almost had her crying immediately. Her umma pulled back, small but firm hands cradling her face, thumbs brushing over her cheeks.
She glanced behind her. “Where’s your papa?”
“Our neighbor needed his help with something.”
“Ah.” Her umma nodded. It happened a lot. Bea’s father was basically the street’s handyman, paid for with devotion, casseroles, and beer.
Her umma scooped some steaming broth into a bowl and set it down at the kitchen table. “Eat first,” she instructed, filling a bowl for herself. “Then you can talk.”
Bea didn’t argue.
She sank into her usual chair, fingers curling around the warm ceramic. She took her first sip, savoring it. It was perfect. Rich with love, not just flavor. It warmed her from the inside out.
In spite of the words that sat heavy on her tongue. She had promised herself she wouldn’t delay it once she was home.
“Umma…there’s something I want to tell you,” she began, not quite able to meet Umma’s eyes.
Her mother considered her over the rim of her spoon. “You met someone.”
Bea’s head snapped up. It wasn’t a question. She forced out a laugh, but it felt thin. “H-how…”
Her umma gave her a look that said, I’m your mother.
Bea exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you before, but…”
“You wanted to tell me in person,” her umma said softly.
Bea nodded.
“Is it serious?”
Bea opened her mouth, but no words came out. Because the answer wasn’t simple.
Yes. It was serious. More serious than she knew how to say.
But it was also still new. Barely half a year. And she was here. He was there. With an ocean between them. And…who knew what could happen during summer.
Her mother nodded as if she already understood.
Bea took a breath. “I—he’s—”
Her mother’s expression was thoughtful. “I see.”
Bea frowned. “What do you see?”
She reached for her spoon again. “Nothing.”
“Umma.”
Her mother took a slow sip of soup. Then, mildly, “He must be very serious about you.”
Bea bit her lip. Her umma reached for the seaweed and started tearing it into strips, placing them neatly beside Bea’s bowl.
Then, she said, “A man like that doesn’t just let a girl leave for the whole break, am I right?”
Bea’s pulse thumped. “How could you even know that?”
“We might live in Toronto but Hallyu made its way here too,” her umma said with a small smile. “I can only assume he’s like a chaebol heir.”
Bea wanted to groan. Her life had literally become a cross between an Austen novel and a Korean drama.
She cleared her throat. “Umma…can you teach me to cook?”
Her mother blinked, looking at Bea like she’d grown another head.
“You’re that surprised?” Bea could’ve giggled, but she was sort of dead serious. She ran her finger mindlessly along the rim of her spoon. “I mean, properly. Not just rice balls and kimbap.”
“It took a man to make you want to learn?” Her umma appeared far too amused.
Bea flushed. “I just…I want to be able to cook something that feels like home.”
Umma stood, moving toward the counter with her empty bowl, a smile getting far too cozy on her lips.
“Finish eating,” she instructed Bea. “Then you can chop the scallions.”
Bea nodded.
“Tomorrow, we’ll make galbi-jjim.”
Bea’s fingers tightened slightly around her spoon, eyes flicking up in surprise. She hadn’t even told her mother.
That was his favorite.