The container finally arrived. That morning, flooring work started downstairs, and of course it rained—over all those book boxes. The kids rushed to the piano the moment it landed in the room. Unforgotten melodies filled the house again.
My parents, leaving back to Korea in two days, couldn't hide their worry at the mountain of boxes. We spent the day unpacking, breaking down boxes, folding packing paper. Our last weekend together, we grilled meat on the deck under the sunset, talking and laughing.
Monday came. While the kids scattered to school and kindy, my parents left for Korea. Auckland's small airport made goodbye come faster. Mom and I tried not to cry—instead of our usual hug, we just held hands tight. We waved until we couldn't see each other anymore. Turned back, a stranger caught my mess of a face and sent a sign of sweet empathy. Brief sadness, but life demanded survival.
The boxes never ended. Between classes, assignments, and kids, we kept unpacking. Couldn't decide on shelves, then spotted a giveaway post on Facebook. Someone's sturdy wooden boards became our toy organization system.
The room with new flooring became the kids' library—books, big desk, and a little cozy study of mine. The other large room filled with piano, violin, and toys. Closets stuffed full, yet boxes remained. Still, things were taking shape.
