Frankly speaking, I cannot in good conscience bring myself to seek any Wendy-less RV-related show, and I haven't since December—not the subunit, not any solo work, not anything. There were a few that passed by my Twitter handle, of course, but I guess I'm lucky I don't follow many BNFs. That, and there's always the block/mute option. Or work on my fics, really. The whole Song series was started as a Wendy character study, after all.

My Twitter handle is here but friendly reminder it's not RV-exclusive. My curiouscat is here. Feel free to drop by if you're not overtly sensitive to deadpanning. As always, please consider supporting my crowdfunding. Stay safe, everyone.

-.-.-

1990-2000

Jang Yoonsil, now Shon, would like to believe she is an observant woman. She’s made a living before she settled down and briefly after by using such skill, after all. The most important women in her life appreciate it. Her late mother said she has the knack for it. Her daughters love, and equally shudder at, that particular quirk of hers. Her firstborn snapped at her once when she told her she should’ve told her about her newest boyfriend. Or her fling, as she’s corrected her. Her youngest recoils—and stutters and flails and shuts down at once—when she brings up, as casually as she could, the possibility that she might, might not settle with a boyfriend at all.

Her husband, sweet Shon Jinyoung, whom she’s been married to for forty years can only rubs her back when her youngest makes haste to excuse herself and flee the dining table. I thought we’ve agreed to approach her gently? he says, no reproach in his calm voice.

She drops her face onto her palms, elbows on the table. If her mother-in-law were still alive, she would’ve chastised her for her lack of table manner.

-.-.-

She was twenty-nine and in love when she found out she was three-month pregnant with her first child. Her husband fell off the bed when she told him. Are you sure, he’d asked, still on the floor that only his head was visible from her side of the bed, his smile watery. She nodded. Are you really, really sure, he’d asked again, and pronto she was annoyed. Do you want this baby or not? she snapped.

He looked at her as if she’d sprouted a second head. Sweetheart, he said (he loved nicknames, courtesy of his brief student exchange to America when he was in college, and she would never understand why), patient and sickeningly sweet, my brain’s already running on its hamster wheel thinking of the best pediatricians for you and baby names for our firstborn.

Rolling her eyes, she pulled him back to the bed. He swept his hand reverently over her still flat stomach, trembling a little. Hello, peanut, he said to her stomach. My God, I’m a dad.

She started tearing up at that. Lemme guess. All those names you’re already gathering—they’re all boys’ names, no?

What? No, no, no. They’re all neutral names, but if I have a say on this, I want a daughter. Daughters.

She scrunched her nose as he laughed. Shon Jinyoung, you weird, adorable man. She tugged him down to her level, and they lied side by side. You’ll be the best girl’s daddy.

I’ll be the best girl’s daddy, he repeated, grinning. He kissed her cheek. Only the best mom and dad for the best girl.

They told her father by phone and his mother in a visit by the weekend. Her husband was the youngest of three, and his two elder brothers were all not in Korea (one had to seek asylum in America because of his support of the Gwangju Uprising, one lived in Canada for business). He was his mother's favorite. Her mother-in-law, a prissy haughty Joseon daughter of a long Seongbuk-dong resident line, reacted first with, Are you healthy, Yoonsil?

Yes, mother-in-law.

Make sure my grandchild is, too.

Yes, mother-in-law.

The next day, her mother-in-law had scheduled biweekly appointments with one of Seoul’s top pediatrician and sent a monthly package of vitamins to their residence. During her eighth month, her husband was assigned to supervise a project of the newly revamped KOICA in Bangladesh, and her mother-in-law slipped in the bathroom and hurt her hip. She had to commute a few times a week to juggle checking on her mother-in-law, meeting her pediatrician, and working. I’m round and large and stressed out, she’d told her husband on one of his weekly calls.

You’re a mom-to-be and the strongest woman I know.

I swear if this baby won’t get out in due time, I’m gonna pull her out myself.

He was silent for a moment. Her? They never checked the baby’s , that’s why. Keep it a surprise, they reasoned.

Don’t ask, okay. I just know it. I’m her mom.

Shon Seunghee was born on Chilseok, 1991. Our enlightenment, her husband (who returned from his overseas work just a week before) whispered tearfully at the bundle of 3.2 kg of blessing in his arms. Our enlightenment.

-.-.-

Then next time she found herself pregnant again, her firstborn was two years old and her husband had just passed the preliminary for a prestigious scholarship to study in America. I’m not sure I can do this, she told her husband right after she handed him her latest pregnancy test. She’d just appeared from the bathroom, and her husband was feeding her firstborn, who’s sitting on his lap. They both turned to look at her and her red-rimmed eyes.

Eomma, are you crying?

No, she said. Yes, she wanted to say but didn’t.

Her husband gently let Seunghee down from his lap. Princess, can you please get your sippy cup from the living room? Appa will refill it for you.

Juice? Oh her bright, widening eyes would floor her any time.

Juice. He smiled.

Yes!

With her firstborn out for now, he turned to her again, ushering her to sit next to him.

I can’t do this, she said. You’ll be far, far away next year. And for how long? Four years? Five? Ten? Seunghee isn’t old enough to be dropped at a day care while I work, and there’s your mother’s health to think about, too. Before he could say anything, she raised a warning finger. And no, no. I’m not quitting. I love my job, okay.

He took her hand in his. Okay.

Okay?

He shrugged. I was gonna suggest you ask your boss to reduce your hours, but you’re right. You’re doing most of the parenting here. Who am I but a glorified diaper changer and feeding machine?

She pinched his arm. You’re taking this all too well.

I’m not, no, not really. I’m terrified, too. Think we should think this through?

Yeah, okay. Sorry. Okay.

Okay. Thank you.

Mm. She leaned her head on his shoulder. Seunghee came back with her sippy cup, waving it wildly in front of them. Appa, juice! You promise!

I do, I do. Grinning, he lifted her to his arms and together they walked to the kitchen. I promise to love you forever, don’t I, princess?

And Eomma?

And Eomma, forever.

-.-.-

She worked less, and her husband tried his best to decline overseas assignments as much as he could. Seunghee made it her duty to say good morning and good night to her younger sibling. I can’t wait to see you soon, baby brother or sister, she said, her fingers tapping and rubbing her mother’s round belly. Came her third trimester, her husband had been her solid rock, tolerating her extreme mood swing (crying in the middle of preparing dinner because she forgot to chop the chilies the way he liked them) and weird craving (tomato salad with chocolate sauce, kiwi with a sprinkle of salt). She just hoped her baby didn’t inherit anything weird from her or grew up weird.

The family’s balance book was okay. They managed. Her husband cut his music budget (that meant fewer visits to jazz cafes and music bookstores). His mother asked point blank if she should help, and they insisted she should not. At one time she kicked her husband out to sleep on the couch because seeing him read before bed, which he normally did, reminded her she hadn’t been to work for weeks. He didn’t kiss her good morning the next day, but he never brought up the incident either.

February 21, 1994. It’s a wee hour, and Seoul was snowed in. Her winter baby was so wrinkly and so pale and a little underweight and so, so hers.

Our glory, her husband had named her. The first syllable was to keep it similar to her elder sister, the second from her late mother, which touched her and meant a lot to her. Hello, Shon Seungwan. Appa is here. Appa loves you so much. Eomma’s here, too, but she’s tired so let’s meet her again later, okay.

She was too exhausted to cry.

-.-.-

Her husband left for America in August. On the first night of his absence, she brought Seungwan to her bed and tried her best not to resent her, or herself, or her husband, for things that she could name and things she didn’t know the name of. She kept her close to her.

Seungwan scrunched her nose, lips puckering and closing, still sound asleep. Her tiny fingers held her forefinger for the rest of the night.

-.-.-

Seungwan was two, Seunghee five when she came back from a quick juice run from a nearby convenienc