The Enigmatic Alchemy Of Love

Chapter 24 [Elise]

We felt a surge of fear and anticipation, wondering what he was going to say. We hoped it was something good, something that would make us happy. We hoped it was something like "I love you" or "I will return to your mother" or "I'm sorry for neglecting you."

But it wasn't.

Before he could say anything else, a little girl came out of nowhere, running towards him. She had long black hair, big brown eyes, and innocence all over her face. She looked about the same age as Tris, and she wore a pink dress and a matching bow.

She stopped in front of our father, and as soon as he saw her, he smiled and sat on his knees. She hugged him, saying, "Appa, eodi gass-eo. Bogo sip-eoss-eo." [ Dad, where did you go? I missed you.]

We didn't understand what she said, but we could tell she was whining about his absence. We could tell by her expressions. She looked happy to see him but also sad and angry. She looked like she missed him, but also like she blamed him.

She looked like she loved him.

And he loved her back.

He hugged her, kissed her cheek, and said something in Korean. He sounded gentle and affectionate, but also guilty and apologetic. He sounded like he cared about her and wanted to make up for his mistakes.

He sounded like he loved her.

More than he loved us.

We felt a shock of disbelief and betrayal as we realized who she was. She was his daughter. His other daughter. His secret daughter.

She was the reason he came to Seoul. She was the reason he left us. She was the reason he lied to us.

She was the reason he broke our hearts.

We looked at each other and saw the same pain and anger in our eyes. We felt the same hatred and jealousy in our hearts. We wanted to scream, cry, and run away.

But we couldn't.

We had to stay.

We had to face them.

We had to face the truth.

Our father's voice, once a distant echo, now cut through the silence with a sharpness that made us flinch. "This is Yona," he said, his words devoid of the warmth they held moments ago. "She is your sister." His introduction was terse, his face an unreadable mask of seriousness. There was no room for protest, no space for questions. This was our reality now, and we were expected to accept it.

He stood up, Yona's hand in his, and turned to us with a gaze that seemed to look right through us. "You will live here now," he continued, his voice carrying the finality of a judge's gavel. "You will go to school, and you will study. This is your home now."

The words were a decree, leaving no room for argument. We were to be planted in this foreign soil, expected to take root and flourish. But how could we, when every fibre of our being longed for the familiar grounds of Boston?

In the days that followed, our lives unfolded like a script we hadn't agreed to perform. We were enrolled in one of the top schools in Seoul, where the language was as foreign as the land itself. We sat in classrooms filled with the chatter of students who shared no part of our turmoil.

My father's secretary took us on walks through the city, pointing out landmarks and historical sites with a sort of pride. She was showing us the Seoul we will live in for now, a place she clearly loved, but to us, it felt like a maze of streets that led further away from home.

Yona was a constant presence, a reminder of the life our father had built without us. She was a sweet child, full of energy and affection, but to us, she was a symbol of our father's betrayal. We returned home each day to a house that didn't feel like ours, to sit at a dinner table steeped in awkward silence. Our father would ask about our day, a question that seemed more obligatory than interesting. We answered in monosyllables, our minds miles away.