I was born in Jeonju, but my childhood memories were molded in Seoul. I remember living in a huge house—old but sturdy—filled with children who were, by no means, blood related. Nevertheless, we were taught to treat one another as family, and to cherish the days we spent together. Thus, petty arguments usually broke out, followed by teary reconciliations, and then laughter. We rarely had new toys; most of them were hand-me-downs from people we never met. Our clothes, though worn, were always clean. It always smelled of lavender. I knew the names of the social workers who frequented our orphanage, and I loved them. Still, Mrs. Kim was my favorite. She had this certain warmth which reminded me of a mother.

Once, she also taught me a special greeting. It must have been right after I fought with Wooyoung, a kid about my age, who was from Busan. The reason behind the quarrel is now vague to me. It was my first fistfight, and that earned me a tender, purplish bruise on the cheek. We were reprimanded by other social workers, and were forced to face a corner as we reflected on our actions. After being disciplined, Mrs. Kim visited our bedroom, sat on the edge of my bed, the mattress covered with starchy, lavender-scented sheets.

I was reading a storybook—Peter Rabbit, I think—and then she began talking. First, it was some stories about her elementary days, when she fought against boys; I laughed at some parts. Sensing I was in a better mood, she carried on, and told me, “I have a special greeting to teach you, Sunggyu, so listen well.”

And I did.                                           

Ever since then, I began greeting people with the word ‘sunshine’ attached at the end of my sentences, hoping they would reply with the word ‘summer’ attached at the end of theirs.

The years I spent living in the orphanage were joyful. Wooyoung and I still argued, but we never landed a punch on each other anymore. Somehow, we satisfied our competitive spirits through words and games. From there, a strange friendship blossomed. We never said we cared for each other, but our actions betrayed us nevertheless.

It was July when one of the social workers called me back inside the orphanage. The year was 1993, and the blistering heat of the sun baked the ground dry, causing dust to fly in all directions as we ran around the yard, with different agendas in mind. Some wanted to play tag. Wooyoung and I, however, hunted for beetles after finding a spool of thread in the toy box. We planned to keep them as temporary pets. It was around that time, when my life had to change its course.

My shirt was damp with sweat, and I kept on wiping my brows with the back of my palm. My feet were covered in dirt, and my shorts, once white, turned brown. Upon noticing a pair of unfamiliar faces, I bowed apologetically. We were taught, after all, to look our best.

“It’s okay, Sunggyu-yah,” the woman said. She had a pair of cheerful eyes, and a very warm smile. Her hair was short, and was curled at its ends. The man looked gruff, but there was a twinkle of kindness in his eyes. “We really wanted to see you. That is why we asked for you to be called in here.”

“Sunggyu,” the head of the orphanage, Miss Song, began. But she didn’t have to carry on, for me to understand. I was only four years old, but I felt something was about to happen, which involved me.

The very next week, I moved out of the orphanage. I left Wooyoung behind, along with the friends I had. Wooyoung bawled his eyes out, and grabbed my shirt before I could even make it to the main door. His swollen eyes were fixed on me, and his transparent snot abundantly trickled from his nose to his chin. His cheeks, flushed red, matched his quivering lips.

In the end, I started crying, too. We didn’t talk. We just stood there. We cried until we ran out of breath. Somehow, the social workers did not hold either of us back. My foster parents waited patiently. No words were exchanged between Wooyoung and I. I do not remember if we even embraced or not. All I could recall, was the lingering sensation of the balmy wind against my skin, and the smell of lavender. There was the color of Wooyoung’s bleached hair glimmering beneath the summer sunlight, and the bright red shirts of the social workers.

After some time, Wooyoung asked to be picked up, and quickly, fell asleep in Mrs. Kim’s arms.

At the age of seventeen, Wooyoung killed himself.

<:>

My new home was warm, in a sense that I knew I would be loved in there. They provided me a room of my own, fully decorated with picture books and toys. They expected me, and being young, that feeling of someone actually wanting me, was too much for my heart to handle. The walls were blue, perfectly matching my duvet and carpet. My bed, bookshelf and study table, however, were white. There was a mobile hanging at the ceiling, spinning languidly. They were planets, with the sun at the very center. Whenever the window was open, streams of sunlight would go through the translucent glass, casting off a spectrum of colors against the walls. It was a sight to behold, whenever I woke up, only to be greeted later on by my foster parents. At the very back of my mind, though, I kept on wondering how things were in the orphanage. If Wooyoung made a new best friend, and if he still had those nightmares.

I attended a nursery school, not too far from our house. The yard was wide, with enough sandboxes, swings and slides to distract the children from missing their parents. We had naptimes, and I usually slept beside a boy named Jinki. I remember him as a cheerful, plump boy, with a pair of bright eyes and an undefeatable smile. It was autumn, and with mother being heavily pregnant, father would come and pick me up from school, instead. On that day, however, things got hectic in his office. Thus, one of the volunteers walked me home after receiving the call. I was about to change clothes when mother’s water broke. It may have been my adrenaline’s working, but I hurriedly dialed father’s office number and told him something was wrong with mother. Not long after, an ambulance carried us to the hospital. Father then showed up in the hospital’s playroom; he was drenched in sweat, and the pristine suit he wore were already crinkled. He told me to wait there, as he would stay with mother. It was late in the night, when father picked me up. His hands slightly trembled as he held the steering wheel, but the happiness in his eyes could not be hidden.

“Sunggyu,” he said. “You now have a little sister.”

<:>

It was my first time, seeing a human being that was barely the size of my arm. Her hands were tiny, and her skin was delicate. Nevertheless, a fuzzy kind of warmth emanated from that very fragile vessel. She was sleeping soundly, cozily wrapped in a pink cot as mother cradled her. I couldn’t help but be amazed.

“She’s so small,” was all I could whisper. I was too distracted, staring at her. I was afraid, too. If I spoke louder, she might wake up.

“You were like this back then, too, Sunggyu,” mother told me with a smile.

“I don’t remember.”

“Because you were too young.”

“Then, she won’t remember today, too?” I asked, unable to hide the tint of sadness in my voice.

“No.”

Grinning, I promised, “I’ll remember it for her, then.”

And that was that. Two cribs were prepared for Suzy—that was what mother and father named her—one was found in their room, and the other was placed in the living room. Back then, I was happy to have her as a little sister. Every burble she made tickled my heart, and her laughter was like music to my ears. She’d cry, but I also found that side of her endearing. I rarely stayed outside to play. I was too fixated, reading to Suzy, and reminding her just how tiny she looked when I first met her. She would reply with random outbursts of sounds, hands and feet flailing with excitement. Perhaps, I felt indebted, because of the goodness my foster parents showed me. At the same time, I genuinely loved having a little sister to look after.

Not long after, Sang Moon followed, and the days we all spent in the house became noisier day by day. By the time Suzy could talk and walk, Sang Moon was barely starting. He would waddle around the living room with the help of his walker, while Suzy, being mischievous at times, would tease Sang Moon and hold the walker in place. The walls were their canvas, and the bathtub was their swimming pool. Breakfasts became messy because of the two, but strangely enough, we found it a joy. One smile from them blew all of our weariness away.

I changed their diapers, and taught them the basic Korean alphabet, along with how to name colors; I read stories to them, and entertained their questions with joy. Perhaps, it was not ideal for a ten-year-old child to look after two hyperactive toddlers instead of playing somewhere. I loved it, though, tending to my younger siblings. Having that kind of mindset changed my perspectives, as well. I usually could not connect with my classmates’ interests, considering I was too busy thinking of games I could introduce to Suzy and Sang Moon. I was too immersed going to the grocery with mother, too. I enjoyed learning what my younger siblings could and could not stomach. That kind of mentality stayed with me. In middle school, I was constantly appointed as the classroom representative, all because they felt a different air around me. I was, after all, part of the minority who preferred to read books than play sports—of course, as far as the student male population was concerned. I am not saying I’m better off than the others, though. I simply had different interests. That was it. It was a struggle for me to express what I truly want, and to get along with others. I have always chosen the ones who could enter my circle. Surely, as the representative, I was in good terms with my classmates. Nevertheless, only a selected few knew what made me tick.

There was a girl in my class, however, who tried to enter my circle I guarded with care. She did it subtly, in the most admirable way possible. I first noticed it when she started reading the paperbacks I would borrow from the school library. It had been happening for several months, and not being able to suppress my curiosity, I approached her desk when most of the students were busy preparing for the school fair, and asked, “Why do you read the books I borrow?”

She paused, and looked at me with those gentle eyes of her. She had a pale complexion; one that didn’t glow. Nevertheless, she could hold one’s attention with her stare. Her scrawny frame was something girls her age didn’t grow envious of. Nothing special stood out from her, aside from her shiny, black hair that reached her waist most of her friends took time braiding.

“I want to get to know you,” she answered.

I cocked my head. “Why not ask me, then?”

“How sure am I,” she began. “That you would tell me the truth?”

At that time, I realized she knew me more than I had expected. It was a strange feeling. I was relieved, and at the same time, upset. Her name was Sunye. Lee Sunye. She transferred schools not long after that, only for the both of us to cross paths, once again.

<:>

Being five years younger than me, Suzy had to be picked up from her school, which was several blocks away from mine. I was in 7^th grade, then, and she in 2^nd, when I saw her get into a fight for the first time. Teachers were already involved by the time I ran towards the circle formed by children who either wanted them to stop or egged them on. There she was, my little sister, Bae Suzy, getting into an all-out brawl against a boy bigger than her.

“You still wanna go?” Suzy cried, with her messy hair and even messier uniform. She kicked and squirmed, trying her best to break free from the grasp of her teacher. “Take back what you said, Ilhoon! Take back what you said!”

Before the other could even retaliate, I quickly entered the scene, apologized to the teachers, and pulled Suzy out. At one point she held back, wanting to go back and fight. I simply held on to her tighter. By the time we were in a safe distance, I took a detour, and brought her to the public park where I could properly fix her up. I combed her hair with my hands, and dampened my handkerchief to at least remove some dirt from her clothes and face.

“What happened, that I saw you in that kind of trouble, Bae Suzy?” I asked.

“It’s Ilhoon!” she quickly said. “I just punched him in the face because I didn’t like what he said!”

“You can’t ‘just punch’ people in the face, all because the opinion they have do not match yours,” I replied, half-smirking. “Apologize when you see him, okay?”

“No!” she indignantly crossed her arms, and looked away. With a slight pout, she continued, “When people talk badly about you, it just makes me so angry!”

I didn’t reply.

“He said you’re adopted.”

“But I am,” I confirmed.

“No matter what, you’re my brother,” she snapped. “I’ll have dad teach me new taekwondo skills so I can protect you!”

I laughed at her idea while smoothening down her hair. “I can protect myself well, Suzy. Thank you for today. Now, shall we go get Sang Moon?”

She sniffed, nodded, and held my free hand tightly before asking, “Will you tell mom and dad?”

“Even if I don’t, the teachers may have called home already.”

She heaved a sigh. Pouting, she muttered, “Will I get into trouble?”

“You should listen later, to what mother and father have to say, all right?”

“All right.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

<:>

Surely enough, the news about Suzy getting into a fight was already made known to our parents. They talked it over with Suzy. It was just the three of them; Sang Moon and I played in the living room. After a while, he noticed the absence of his sister.

“She’s talking with mother and father right now,” I patiently explained. “She’ll be here soon.”

“Twouble?” he suggested.

I tousled Sang Moon’s hair. “They’re just having a talk.”

Suzy, after eating dinner that same night, headed upstairs, only to write a letter of apology to Ilhoon. As the three of us grew up, I would encounter such situations from time to time. Both Suzy and Sang Moon were competitive. They rarely backed down, and this may have added more fuel to their fiery personalities. What I admired about the both of them, however, was their openness to admit they made a mistake. They, too, were willing to apologize and forgive. Surely they weren’t perfect kids, but that never made them less loveable. Sometimes, I would think they were protecting me.

"A soft answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger."
- Proverbs 15:1