A WEEK AGO
Ji-eun had lived in a small Eochon, a fishing village on the west coast of Jeju Island, with her mother and stepfather. The village was called Aewol Eochon, known for its hardworking fishermen and women who made their living by the sea.
Her mother's job was to collect and sort the fish brought in by the fishermen—a task shared by most of the women in Eochon—while her stepfather worked as one of the fishermen himself.
That particular morning, Ji-eun was preparing Bori-bap (barley rice) and Doenjang-guk (soybean paste soup) using a sheepshead fish her mother had gathered the day before.
It was a small kitchen, built just beside their house. Inside stood a yeontan stove—a charcoal brick stove made of metal and shaped like a cylinder. Their former stove, made of cement and shaped like a box, now sat abandoned in the corner, broken with age, its surface crumbling away.
The kitchen was warm and softly lit, the yeontan glowing red in the corner. Ji-eun watched the firelight dance against the pot, the steady flicker painting the walls with orange and gold. The stove itself was blackened with soot from years of use, but that was the least of her worries.
She should have been in school by now—but wasn't. Her stepfather had still not paid her school fees, something he should have done long ago. Ji-eun had grown tired of being reminded by the headteacher each week that her fees were overdue.
So that morning, when her stepfather went to the river and her mother followed a few minutes later, she decided not to go to school at all. She was tired—tired of her torn uniform, her broken sandals, and the shame that came with them.
Now fanning the yeontan, she wanted to make lunch for her parents before they came back from the river. She decided to prepare barley rice—since white rice was too expensive—and doenjang-guk, soybean paste soup, using sheep's head fish as the main ingredient.
She loved cooking. In fact, Ji-eun dreamed of becoming a chef someday, though deep down she knew it was a distant fantasy. Still, from time to time, she cooked these small delicacies to keep that dream alive within her.
Before her, in neatly arranged bowls, were the ingredients for her meal:
Two cups of barley rice, a pinch of salt, a drizzle of sesame oil her mother had bought at the market, and some leftover namul—seasoned greens—from the previous night.
For the doenjang-guk with sheepshead, she had prepared a small fish, already cleaned, gutted, and cut into pieces. Beside it were two tablespoons of soybean paste, a clove of garlic—crushed, half of a small onion sliced thin, and half a zucchini.
She began by preparing the barley rice. After washing the barley thoroughly, she added it to a pot of water. Placing it on the yeontan stove, she brought it to a boil over high heat until the water started bubbling. Then, she lowered the flame to let it simmer gently. Once the grains became soft and slightly sticky, she turned off the heat and covered the pot for a few minutes. Finally, she fluffed the rice with a wooden spoon and drizzled a little sesame oil over it.
She set the pot of barley rice aside after it was done cooking and prepared another pot for the paste. She stirred the soybean paste until it dissolved, then added some garlic and onion. As the aroma filled the air, she added the sheepshead fish, including the bones and head. She let it boil for about nine to fourteen minutes before adding a pinch of salt and gochugaru, chili pepper. She tasted it—and it was delicious.
She could taste the deep umani flavor in the soup, thanks to the fish bones and head. It paired perfectly with the barley rice she had made earlier. She was as skilled in eating as she was in cooking. Without waiting for anyone, she sat in the kitchen and enjoyed her portion of food. When she finished, she prepared servings for her stepfather and mother, setting theirs aside in the room. It had been a long day, so she lay down on the worn-out chair in their small two-bedroom apartment's parlor to rest.
A gentle tapping woke her up. She hadn't realized how late it was in the afternoon until she opened her eyes lazily and yawned.
"Why are you lying down at home instead of being in school?" came a man's voice.
Ji-eun didn't bother to answer—she had heard that voice a thousand times. Annoyance stirred in her; she hated that he woke up.
"Are you deaf?" he thundered.
She muttered something under her breath and looked straight into his face—it was her stepfather. She despised the man and showed him not a trace of respect. Grumbling, she stood up and said, "Let me be, Man-soo, ahjusis."
He ignored her attitude. The scent of fish caught his attention, drifting from the plate set aside on the table. Dropping his fishing gear, he quickly set it aside and rushed toward the food.
"Is this Deongjang-guk soup?" he asked with a mouthful of rice. "How come it tastes so good? I can feel the salty, earthy flavor in my mouth. Or is it because of this fish?" He lifted a piece of fish from the bowl, holding it up to his eyes in admiration.
"Yes, yes, go on and eat to your heart's content," she said, setting aside her mother's portion carefully.
"This is the best bori-bap and Doenjang-guk I've ever had," he exclaimed, tilting the bowl to drink a mouthful of the savory broth.
Ji-eun turned away. She couldn't stand to watch him eat. Stepping outside, the afternoon breeze brushed against her skin, tossing her hair across her face. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the wind carry away the bitterness in her chest.
"The afternoon breeze is lovely," she murmured, stepping back into the house.
But the sight that greeted her made her blood boil — her stepfather, Man-soo, was gulping down the soup she had set aside for her mother.
"Man-soo!" she shouted, yanking the bowl from his hands. The soup splashed everywhere — on him, on her, and across the floor, leaving nothing behind.
"Are you crazy?" he barked, wiping his face.
"You're the crazy one!" she fired back. "How can you drink my mother's soup?"
"What? Can't I?" he snapped. "It's my money! Why can't I do what I want?"
"I see you've gone mad," she hissed.
"Watch your tone, young lady," he warned, rising from his seat, his voice edged with fury. "I am your father!"
"Father, my ass," she spat.
The sound of his hand meeting her cheek cracked through the air. Her head snapped to the side — the sting burning deep into her skin.
Ji-eun screamed, shoving him aside before retreating to her room. Moments later, she burst out again, clutching her phone in one hand and a sweater in the other. Man-soo stood frozen, guilt already flickering in his eyes as he realized what he had done.
She stormed out of the house and nearly collided with her mother, who was returning home with a medium-sized basket balanced on her head.
"Where are you going in such a hurry? And why aren't you in school?" her mother asked, frowning.
"Why don't you ask that useless man you call your husband?" Ji-eun snapped and rushed off without another word.
Her mother sighed, exhausted from the day's work and in no mood to deal with yet another quarrel between her husband and daughter. Inside, she set the basket down in a corner of the small parlor.
Her husband sat at the table, eating bori-bap as though nothing had happened.
"When did you make that?" she asked.
"I didn't," he replied quietly. "Your daughter did."
Young-hee's eyes fell on the scattered plates and the spilled soup on the floor. Rising to her feet, she asked softly, "Did you two quarrel?" Then she sank down beside him on the worn sofa.
He sighed. "You know how your daughter is. We argued a little, but I only hit her once. It wasn't even that hard."
"What?" Young-hee's voice rose sharply. "You hit her? I've told you never to lay a hand on her again—no matter what she does!"
"So now it's my fault again?" Man-soo shot back, his voice growing louder. "Why don't you ever take my side? And tell her to stop calling me Man-soo. I'm her father!"
"But Man-soo is your name," she replied firmly. "I won't force her. She's still getting used to you—her new father."
Her chest tightened with frustration as she stood up, bending down to gather the scattered plates.
"Why wasn't she in school anyway?" Young-hee asked, her voice tight with worry.
"I don't know. She didn't say," Mansu replied.
Young-hee set the dishes down with a clatter and disappeared into the bedroom. When she came out moments later, her face was burning with anger. "You didn't take care of Hafiz," she snapped. "He told me you said everything was fine!"
Her words struck like thunder. She was furious now, trembling with rage.
Mansu stood abruptly, his voice booming through the room. "Not again! No, no, no — not again! You and your child are the same!"
With that, he stormed out, leaving the door banging behind him.
Now alone, Young-hee sank into silence. The anger drained away, replaced by fear. Her hands shook as she reached for her phone and dialed her ex-husband — Ji-eun's biological father, Dong-soo — a man she hardly calls.
He answered on the second ring.
"Dong-soo, it's Ji-eun… she ran away from home," she said, her voice trembling.
"Home?" came his startled reply.
"You didn't hear me? I said she left home!" she cried, her words breaking.
"Stay calm," he said firmly. "I'll call her now." And the line went dead.
The phone slipped from her grasp as she collapsed onto the floor. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her sobs echoing through the empty room as she tried again and again to call her phone — but to no avail.