The truth be told, my father didn’t like anything artistic. That is, artistic in the man-made sense; he appreciated nature as much as the next person. With an arm outstretched to the smoggy sky, he liked to say, “What could be more beautiful than this?”

His answer was, of course, nothing. Nothing could be as pure or as real. Artwork, according to my father, was pretentious. It was either a sloppily-done imitation of the real world, or a snobbish abstraction. So our white walls remained bare because plain white paint was just as good as a Monet. Even better, in fact, because the white paint came free with the house. My father didn’t like photography either. All you’re doing when you look at photos, he often said, is living in the past and neglecting the present. True to his philosophy, my father refused to buy a new camera after our old one broke down. The only photos he kept were the schools portraits of me and my brother, which he left on his desk at work.

Before we came into money, I never thought much about my father’s distaste for artistry. I had dismissed it as financial prudence. Why would he waste money on Andy Warhol replicas when we didn’t have enough for my brother’s university education, let alone mine? What was the point of a new camera if we didn’t go on vacations?

But when the money started entering our hands, I understood that my father really did not like art at all. I asked him for a piano, and he said that he would think about it – that really, as a student, my first priority should be academics, not silly things like pressing keys, and would I please understand that music was an expensive endeavor?

I waited and waited, until we had so much money that he could not say no. He bought me a grand piano and hired a piano teacher for me. Still, he was determined to make his point. He wore earplugs when I played the piano. He refused to meet Lay. He couldn’t make it to any of my performances. He did all this, but he did not want to hurt my feelings.

“Daddy, why don’t you ever listen to me play?”

“I’m sorry, but I’m working on something. You know me. I can’t concentrate unless there’s total silence. You understand, right, May?”

“Why didn’t you come to my competition today?”

“I’m sorry, but I had an important meeting. May, please try to understand.” 

He always wanted me to understand. I thought I did. I understood that he did not like music. I understood that he did not appreciate my piano playing. It hurt at first, but the money softened the blow. The money, and the music.

But like all good things, the money and music ended far too soon.

On November 29, 2012, I woke up to the sound of shattering glass. My first thought was that thieves had come into our house. The problem with money, I remember thinking, is that it always brings you some sort of trouble. I was surprisingly calm about the whole situation. Truth be told, I felt almost invincible – giddy from the power of money. I could even derive a erse sense of exhilaration from the whole situation. Looking back on that day, I can now see what a little brat I was. It had taken me less than a year to grow accustomed to the idea of money.

I sat up in bed, more excited than frightened. The repairs would cost money, everything would cost money – but we had money to fix it all. I wasn’t worried about the money.

My father’s voice drifted up the stairs. He sounded frustrated. He wasn’t scared or nervous. I realized then that there were no thieves in our house, that my father had simply broken something. I shoved my head back under the covers, unwilling to get up and slightly disappointed in the banality of the situation. My clumsy father had probably just dropped a glass of water. The maid would be around in the morning to clean it up. Just as I was about to fall back into sleep, I heard another crash. And then another.

We were rich enough that my father could break everything he wanted. But my father was not like me (or Kris for that matter). My father hated waste. More specifically, he hated seeing the fruits of his labor being carelessly handled. It took me a while to process that my father was the conductor of the cacophonous symphony downstairs. I crawled out of bed, wincing as the crashes continued to sound from downstairs.

Hesitantly, I crept down the stairs and peered into my father's office. It was a mess. His computer was smashed to pieces. His paper shredder was whirring, but the ground was covered in what seemed to be the contents of his entire filing cabinet.

My father was in the living room. Hammering away at my piano with a bat. I didn’t know what was going on. I hid in the doorway. Eventually, my father was satisfied. But he was trembling all over. He went into the kitchen. Had a long drink of water. He let the half-full glass of water fall to the ground. He saw me, stuck in the doorway petrified and dumbstruck. He said, “I need to get some eggs from the store. I’ll be back soon.”

It was five in the morning. He put on his cheapest coat and slipped on his shoes. He got in his car. He drove away. It all felt surreal. I stood in my pajamas not comprehending. I called Kris. Kris, his voice still groggy with sleep, called the police.

I waited at the kitchen table until the door opened. Kris came in, followed by a policeman.

It was six in the morning, and my father was dead.    

The story came out in the next few days. It was all over the news. After the first day, Kris broke the television. In contrast, I wanted to know everything. I read all the newspapers I could get my hands on. My father had left me and Kris a letter. Kris found it inside the refrigerator. Kris refused to read it. He wouldn’t let me read it either. He gave it to the police.

It turned out that my father had orchestrated one of the largest Ponzi schemes in the country in the past thirty years. He’d conned thousands of people out of their life savings. He’d known that the police were onto him. So after making a feeble attempt to destroy the evidence, he had driven his car into a river.

Lay came by to pick up his paycheck. No, he must have just come by for the excitement. By that time, everybody in Korea knew that we had no money. Kris explained it all to Lay anyway. Lay ruffled my hair, and then he walked out of my life without a second glance.

Neither Kris nor I wanted to try and find our mother. Kris was old enough to take care of me. And I had a fancy scholarship from a private school. The ostensible premise of the scholarship was to ‘reform the daughter of the criminal in the interests of society’. But really, all they wanted was the media attention. I certainly did get a lot of press coverage, and most of it was largely negative.

All the money our father had ‘earned’ went toward paying off his debts. There wasn’t nearly enough money to fix all the lives he had ruined. Thankfully, however, it was not our responsibility to correct his mistakes.

So Kris and I went on living.  

A few months after the fervor had died down, when the media clustered in front of our shabby apartment had dispersed in search of fresh stories, I asked Kris why our father had destroyed the piano.

“Our mother left us for a piano performer,” he said. “He was pretty successful too.”

Oh. 

That was the last time we talked about our father.

A/N: Hi guys! So sorry for this late update! I've been very busy with school (first year of university) and haven't had much time to write. I'm on spring break right now, so I'll try to update more frequently, but I can't make any guarantees once university starts again. I would like to thank you all for sticking with this story for so long though. I appreciate your interest and loyalty beyond what words can express.

This is the last "Past Life" chapter - just some background for the characters! We'll jump back into present time starting with the next chapter!