The school gate looked like the mouth of a machine. Children streamed in in waves—orderly, as if they'd been practicing since childhood.
The morning air bit at the skin. Cars stopped briefly, dropped off their children, then drove away. No one truly waited. The sharp whistle of a security guard sliced through the frozen air, shrill amid the growl of luxury SUVs pulling up exactly at the yellow line.
My father walked beside me.
His pace wasn't fast, but it was never fully relaxed.
My school bag felt heavy.
In his hand, a thin folder containing enrollment documents looked heavier.
"Dad, don't hold it like you're about to attend an interview," I said.
He turned to me.
"I am going to the office after this."
"That's not what I meant."
He nodded slowly.
"Oh."
Near the gate stood the school's nameboard. Clean Korean letters, freshly repainted—as if no stain was allowed where children learned how to become human.
A mother stood on the sidewalk, bending toward her still-yawning child. In her hand was a paper cup of hot coffee. Steam rose from it like breath being held in.
My father stopped.
"Let's take a photo first," he said.
I looked at him.
"Why?"
"So we have… documentation."
His tone was serious, as if this were important business.
He lifted his phone, then lowered it again.
He looked around.
People passed quickly.
No one really stopped.
"Excuse me, could you help?" my father asked a man walking by.
The man wore a suit, earphones, and a face already at the office though his body was still in front of the school. He nodded politely, but his steps didn't slow.
My father smiled neatly.
The smile wasn't fast enough to catch the man.
He turned and tried again with a grandmother adjusting her grandchild's scarf. The grandmother smiled, but her hands were full. She gave a small shrug—an apology without sound.
My father froze for half a second. Always like that.
I tugged at the edge of his jacket.
"I can ask that mom over there."
"Which one?"
"The one who looks kind."
My father turned.
His eyes scanned the crowd as if choosing the safest route.
I stepped forward first.
"Eomma… ah—" I stopped.
I didn't know what to call her in a language that wasn't fully mine yet.
The woman turned. I walked over to her—she stood with a boy my age. She was young. Her hair was neat, her coat long, her bag small but unmistakably expensive. Her son stood close, still half-asleep.
Her expression changed.
Not loud surprise.
The kind that settles quietly in the eyes.
"Excuse me," I said.
"Could you help take a photo of us?"
She turned.
Her gaze paused for a moment on my father.
"Of course," she said quickly.
My father handed over his phone with both hands.
Too polite for a morning this cold.
She took it, then looked at us again.
I stood straight.
My father stood straight too—but as if holding his breath.
"A little to the left," the woman said.
"There… good."
Click.
She lowered the phone, checking the photo.
Too long.
"Is it good?" I asked.
She nodded, but her eyes stayed on the screen.
Then she looked at my father.
"Oppa…" She stopped, then corrected herself.
"Ah—I mean…"
She cleared her throat lightly, suddenly very busy with the strap of her Chanel bag, which had already been perfectly in place.
"May we—switch?"
I looked at her.
"What?"
"This," she said, handing me her phone.
"I want a photo with my child."
Her son looked up quickly.
"Me?"
She smiled.
"Yes. First day of school."
She stood beside her son.
My father stood near them automatically—not too close, not truly distant.
I raised the phone.
"Could you stand a little closer?" the woman said.
"So he can set an example as the older brother at home—to be more affectionate with his younger sibling," she added, smiling far too widely for a stranger.
It wasn't an order.
More like a carefully considered suggestion.
My father moved half a step. His movement was cautious, as if afraid of taking up someone else's space.
I framed the shot.
The boy in the center.
His mother beside him.
My father… fit perfectly.
Click.
The woman took her phone back.
She stared at the photo for a long moment, then smiled faintly.
"Thank you," she said.
Her voice was light, but her eyes stayed on the screen.
My father turned to me.
"Are we done?"
"Yes," I said.
We entered the school grounds.
At the door stood a male teacher holding a clipboard.
Neat face. Thin glasses.
His voice was flat, but his eyes measured quickly.
"You're a transfer student?" he asked me.
I nodded. The teacher looked at my father.
"Parent?"
My father nodded—twice.
"Yes."
The teacher checked the form.
"For confirmation… only the father will be active in the class KakaoTalk group?" He lifted his glasses slightly, eyes scanning my father from shoes to head—searching for signs of a mother's presence in our home.
My father nodded.
"Yes," he answered shortly.
He paused, then added,
"I can adjust my working hours."
The teacher wrote something down.
"Class 3-2," he said to me.
"Do you have indoor shoes?"
I shook my head. He pointed to the shoe rack.
"Take a pair in your size. You'll replace them later."
I walked to the rack.
Rows of small shoes lined up neatly, as if each already knew its role.
Behind me, my father spoke softly to the teacher.
I didn't hear everything—just fragments.
"…I'll walk him in first… after that, to the office…"
Then my father's voice dropped even lower, as if afraid of being out of place.
"If… my child causes any trouble… please let me know."
His tone was careful.
Like someone who always anticipates the worst.
I entered the classroom. The children looked up.
The homeroom teacher stood at the front.
A thin smile, eyes full of rules.
"We have a new friend," he said.
I stood.
My name came out of my own mouth, sounding foreign in this room.
Some children smiled.
Some stared at my shoes.
Some didn't care.
I glanced toward the door.
My father was still outside, watching me through the glass.
He lifted his hand slightly, hesitated, then lowered it again.
He never knew where to put his hands.
Then he checked his watch.
His expression changed.
Not panic.
More like someone who'd just remembered he had no room to be late.
My father ran.
Not a rushed run.
A polite run.
A run that tried to stay neat.
I sat down.
At the front, the homeroom teacher began explaining schedules, lunch, and rules. Before the lesson started, he took out a plastic box.
"Phones go here. Pick them up after school."
I took out my phone.
The screen lit up briefly.
One message. From my father.
"Don't tell anyone. Papa made a mistake."
I locked the screen and placed the phone in the box.
I didn't yet know what mistake he meant.
But I knew one thing:
If my father went as far as writing mistake, then for him, it wasn't a small one.
—To be continued—