It felt like a season of goodbyes. We left the home we'd lived in for eight years. After the final clean, I stood in the empty rooms and suddenly remembered how the two kids—once barely waist-high—used to flutter around like little butterflies on their first day in this house.
Then we said goodbye to our brave car, Yuchil, the one that had carried us through so many years. My husband, full of bittersweet pride, sat the kids in the boot and took one last photo before letting him go.
On the day of our departure, we left the two younger girls with my parents and headed for the airport. Unlike past trips when we wandered the duty-free stores with excitement, we carried only fatigue, tension, and the weight of an unseen future.
Without her sisters around, Yumin was unusually quiet, and my husband made mistakes he'd never make on any ordinary day. The flight ahead of us was eleven hours—the longest one in Yumin's life. Even in the cramped seat, she didn't complain. She slept when she could, ate her in-flight meal politely, and watched a movie in silence.
As the plane lifted off. The city lights of my country spread out beneath the window—beautiful and familiar. It almost felt like we were leaving for a trip, so I whispered a small farewell in my heart. Hey, I ain't coming back. Goodbye—maybe for good.
