On sunny afternoons, when the child woke from his nap, Ms. P would take him by the hand and head outside. The neighborhood, which was filled with luxury condos, had a nice playground in the middle of the complex, but Ms. P always walked to the nearby park just beyond. As she neared the park, holding the hand of this boy, this five-year-old with a bowl haircut and big monolid eyes, she felt again the pure joy these moments gave her. In the center of the park, there was an open area with a manicured lawn where children could run and play. Ms. P spread out her mat on the edge of the grass and sat down with the boy. Nearby, young women had also brought their children to the park and were chatting in small groups or watching their children play. Ms. P exchanged polite nods with them but kept to herself. When the boy asked, “Can I go play?” she smiled and nodded. Once he dashed off, she took a book from her small canvas bag and began to read. Sometimes she would stop reading to watch the boy. The children played well together. Occasionally, when he tried to take another child’s toy or overpower a younger one, Ms. P would fold down the corner of the page and go to him. She would place her hand gently on his shoulder and say in a firm but soft voice, “You’re not being a good boy.” The young women watched as Ms. P reprimanded the child.

At this point, it might be good to mention the boy’s mother. According to her, she had “been tricked into marriage” by her husband, but that was just a playful complaint. From the moment she realized she had an eye for art, she had hoped to work in France. She had actually gone to Paris during high school and studied art history at a college there. However, weary from years of living abroad, she returned to Korea as soon as she finished graduate school. She hadn’t planned to remain in Korea permanently. Her intention was to stay with her parents for about six months to recuperate and then leave again. Yet, somehow, nine months later, she found herself walking down the aisle in a wedding dress. 

    “The friends I studied with ended up in New York, Amsterdam, or London. I had this crazy idea that I’d go back to Paris one day, even after I got married,” she once told her colleagues. “You have no idea how good he is to me. He adores me.” But the climax of her story was this: “Two lines showed up on the pregnancy test. I was so shocked!” Every time she got to this part, she’d almost burst into tears. “I love my little boy. I’d never trade him for anything now. He’s absolutely priceless to me. But was it hard raising him? No, no, it was pure joy.”

      Indeed, she stayed home for three whole years to take care of him. When she announced she was getting married, her mother had felt a sense of betrayal and declared she wouldn’t help with the child-rearing. Her mother kept her word. 

      Anyone who heard the boy’s mother tell this story always marveled at her appearance, as there was no sign she had given birth or raised a child. Her thick, glossy hair had attractive curls that fell over her shoulders, her skin had a vibrant glow, and her limbs were long and slender. Around the beginning of spring that year, she secured a job at an art gallery—even though it was just an internship—and hired a nanny, Ms. P, to take over caring for the boy. Sometimes, those listening asked about the nanny. After thinking for a moment, she would say, “Oh, her? Hmm . . . she’s a good person.”

If Ms. P had known that someone would ask the boy’s mother about her, she would have wanted her to answer this way: “Oh, the nanny? She used to be a substitute teacher.” Of course, it would be possible to leave out the word “substitute,” but that somehow felt dishonest. Ms. P had taught history—sometimes social studies, sometimes geography—for twenty long years, and she loved her job. In her younger days, there must have been a time when she’d longed to become a full-time teacher. Thankfully, there were many schools that needed substitute teachers, and until last year, Ms. P was able to move from school to school, teaching history—sometimes social studies, sometimes geography—to middle and high school students. However, after filling in for a female teacher on maternity leave last spring, no schools had shown any interest in hiring her. When she was finally forced to accept that she would never stand in front of a classroom as a substitute teacher again, Ms. P didn’t feel particularly upset. She wasn’t the type to blame others. And whenever someone begged on the subway, she never turned them away.

      When she first arrived at the apartment for the nanny interview, the boy’s father said, “I heard you used to be a teacher.” He had passed the bar exam a few years ago and now worked on the legal team of a well-known company. For some reason, he felt a mix of sympathy, pity, and even a little guilt that Ms. P was sitting in his living room, applying to be his child’s nanny. However, she simply said, “There are substitute teachers younger and more capable than me. How could I stay on? That would be shameless of me.”

      Ms. P thought of the students she had taught, those who’d listened attentively, nodding along while looking into her eyes. As these memories floated through her mind, she glanced around the room—the lilies in the vase on the coffee table, the geometric patterns on the curtains covering the balcony window, and the glass cabinet in the kitchen filled with decorative tea sets. She also took in the family—the handsome, polite young father, the lovely, elegant young mother, and the cute, intelligent-looking child. Perhaps at that moment, Ms. P thought of her own home with its modest wallpaper, synthetic fiber curtains, and narrow bed. She imagined herself eating alone, getting dressed alone, and sleeping alone. But these thoughts lasted only a moment, so brief she hardly registered them. Instead, her mind quickly filled with thoughts of her desk—a huge mahogany desk. It was actually a dining table, but Ms. P used it as a desk. It didn’t matter. It was the most expensive and beautiful thing she owned. Beautiful. Ms. P repeated the word in her mind. Then she straightened her back. “That’s just the way the world works,” she said, fiddling with the metal button on her tweed jacket, the best piece of clothing she owned.

     Ms. P’s job was relatively simple. Around two in the afternoon, on her way to work, she would stop by the daycare to pick up the boy and bring him home, staying with him until one of the parents returned. The parents didn’t like leaving their child with someone else after dark and made sure at least one of them had dinner with him every evening. Frankly speaking, Ms. P contributed nothing to the dinner table. The weekend helper made all the side dishes, and the mother (sometimes the father) cooked after work. So, Ms. P watched the child until the father (or mother) set the table, but she never joined them for dinner, and she didn’t particularly mind.

      On her first day picking up the boy from daycare, he insisted on staying until his mother came for him and ended up crying. This happened several times. Each time, Ms. P gave a nonchalant sigh and said, “All right, let’s do that.” She had twenty years of experience. Eventually, the boy would hold Ms. P’s hand and head home. While the child took a nap, Ms. P took out a book from her small canvas bag, along with some food she had packed. She didn’t help herself to even an apple from the refrigerator. When Ms. P was hired, the first thing the boy’s mother had done was to show her the tea box with its assortment of teas, the medicine cabinet, and the fridge filled with fruit. “Please, consider this your home,” she had said. But Ms. P never turned on the TV or radio, used the phone, or even touched a bottle of pills. Apart from the child’s room, the living room, and the kitchen, she didn’t look around the apartment or handle any of the books on the shelves in the study.

      After their stroll in the park, the boy usually played with his toys, but sometimes asked Ms. P to read him a book. When she read aloud, he would repeat after her in a small voice. Watching him, Ms. P recalled a song she’d once heard: The seagulls stir the heart because while sinners sin, the children run and play. Because the children run and play.

      Why did that song come to mind? She turned to look out the window. From the apartment, she saw the bridge that crossed the Han River, the rows of apartment complexes beyond that, and a giant Ferris wheel spinning in the distance. Sunlight sparkled on the river’s surface, and the spring breeze made the water ripple, like hundreds of pages were turning. Suddenly, Ms. P’s heart sank, and she was filled with fear.

      She turned back to look at the cute, intelligent little boy who was repeating after her. She patted his head affectionately.

     One day, the boy came holding a large sketchbook and crayons. “Do you know how to draw?” 

      “Of course,” Ms. P said with a gentle smile, taking the sketchbook and crayons from him. 

      “Can you draw a ball?” 

      “A ball?” She drew a large circle with a black crayon. 

      “But that’s not a ball.” 

      Ms. P felt a little confused. “Yes, it is.” 

      “Soccer balls don’t look like that,” he said, shaking his head.

      What did a soccer ball look like? How were you supposed to draw a basketball? And what about a baseball? 

      At the boy’s insistence, she turned the page and drew another large circle with the black crayon, but she couldn’t 

figure out how or where to draw the lines. She tried to focus on all the different balls floating in her mind. 

     That night, on her way home, Ms. P stopped by a store and spent a long time looking at soccer balls, basketballs, baseballs, golf balls, rugby balls, and beach balls. At home, she copied each kind into a small notebook and practiced drawing them over and over again. The next day, she studied different types of flowers, then different colors, and then different cars. One day, she even bought a book on raising children around the boy’s age and started reading it. Sitting at her large desk, which was actually a dining table, in the corner of her small room, she felt overwhelming happiness as she organized these things. When was the last time she’d felt this way? But soon she realized that such thoughts were blasphemous. She reminded herself to be thankful for each day. However, after a moment, she compromised a little and thought, “I’ve never been this happy.”

When spring ended and summer began, everything was a mess. It rained almost every day, and the air was muggy. Ms. P didn’t wear her tweed jacket anymore. Instead, she wore a light cotton blouse with sleeves that came just above her wrists. One day, while it was pouring outside, the child struggled to put on his rain boots at the daycare entrance and said, “My mommy is home today.” It was true. The day before, his parents had a big fight. They had been discussing their summer vacation. For months, they had planned to go to Rome with the boy, but now the father said he couldn’t go because of work. He added angrily that he didn’t see the point of taking such a young child to Rome. The mother thought he was being unfair and insulting toward her, so she went into the boy’s room where he lay sleeping, gathered him up in her arms, and burst into tears.

     Ms. P knew their fight was none of her business and that she shouldn’t interfere, but what about the boy? What would happen to him? What if their fight affected him negatively? Would he be able to forget his mother holding him while sobbing? What if this memory became buried deep in his heart? Was there any guarantee it wouldn’t resurface somehow later in life? Ms. P thought of the delinquents she had taught. Where were they now? The ones who’d smoked, used foul language, and shouted. Their raspy voices. The thought made her heart sink, and the recklessness of the boy’s parents angered her. But when she arrived at the apartment and saw the mother lying in bed, in her pajamas with her luxuriant hair disheveled, Ms. P’s heart softened a little. She went to her and asked if there was anything she could do. The mother shook her head and spoke in a choked voice. “I’m so embarrassed.” 

      Ms. P shook her head. 

      “Since I started working, we haven’t had any proper time together. I know it must be hard for him too, but still. . .”

       Ms. P patted the mother’s shoulder and went to the kitchen to bring her some warm milk.

      “Drink this and get some sleep. You’ll feel better afterward.” 

      Watching the mother blow on the hot milk like a child, Ms. P felt a complicated emotion that was hard to describe 

and struggled to suppress it. She said, “Sorry, but I need to say this. It’s not good to fight in front of children.” 

      It didn’t take the mother long to think about Ms. P’s words. That very night, when her husband gave her a bouquet 

of roses to make her feel better, she told him while in his arms, “She had the nerve to give me advice.” 

      “What did she say?” 

      “She said it’s not good to fight in front of children.” 

      “It’s probably because she’s never had kids. To her, everything’s theoretical. But not everything goes according to theory.”

      The mother fell into thought. Why do some women grow old without marrying or having children? But she soon stopped thinking about it because her life was too far removed from such a reality, and her imagination couldn’t grasp it.

      “Did she say if she has any family?” 

      “On her first day, she mentioned her brother and his wife run an auto repair shop out in the country. Don’t you remember?” 

      “Oh, I remember now.”

      “She paid for her brother’s college education and even helped with his wedding expenses.”

      That was true. Ms. P had supported her brother through college, and she had given him a significant portion of her savings when he got married and started his auto repair shop. However, she had not seen or spoken to him and his wife for several years. Even though she didn’t know these details, the woman said, “When you think about it, she’s had such a sad life.”

      But about a month later, when she had to make an awkward request to Ms. P, she had already forgotten this conversation with her husband.

      The boy’s mother worked at an art museum that was getting ready to hold a fall exhibition called “Contemporary Art of Eastern Europe.” Nearly everything related to the exhibition was proceeding cautiously and slowly, as if walking on thin ice. Just when they thought they were on solid ground, a problem arose. A Romanian artist announced he no longer 

wanted to send his work to the exhibition. To make matters worse, several other Eastern European artists wished to withdraw as well. The boy’s mother and other staff had to stay at the museum until late at night to speak with the artists in Romania, Poland, and the Czech Republic, where the time zones were significantly different. The mother had no choice but to call Ms. P and explain the situation. As Ms. P was about to hang up, she made a joke without thinking, “Eastern Europe can be difficult.” After hanging up, Ms. P recalled a student from her days as a substitute teacher who always got confused as to whether Portugal was in Eastern Europe or not, and she laughed. She believed she knew more about Eastern Europe than the boy’s mother.

      That evening, Ms. P took out the soybean sprouts and eggs from the fridge and taught the 

boy how to trim the sprouts. She had recently read that handling plants and vegetables was good for a child’s development. The boy sang, sloppily trimming the bean sprouts, while she mixed the eggs, chopped the scallions and carrots, and made an omelet. Afterward, she cleaned up his mess and made bean sprout soup. Other side dishes were already prepared. A short while later, Ms. P and the child sat at the table and had dinner. It was the first time she had eaten there. She patiently waited until the boy finished feeding himself. After dinner, she washed the dishes and bathed the child. When it was time for him to go to sleep, she sat next to the bed and read him a story. 

      “When you wake up tomorrow, Mommy and Daddy will be here,” she said. 

      “I know,” the boy said, nodding. 

      Ms. P pulled the blanket up to his neck. “What a good boy you are.”

      Long after he fell asleep, his parents still didn’t come home. Ms. P sat on the living room sofa where she usually sat when the child napped. But tonight, she felt uneasy. She wanted to wake the child. At the same time, she felt like an intruder in an empty house, doing something very wrong. In the end, Ms. P turned on all the lights in the apartment—the living room, kitchen, and even the empty rooms—before she sat back down on the sofa. She was afraid. Why?

      That night, Ms. P went home, lay down on her small bed, and then suddenly sat up. She knelt by the window and prayed.

      After that, the couple often failed to follow their rule of coming home before sunset to be with the child. On nights when they returned late, Ms. P would have dinner with the boy, help him brush his teeth, and inspect his mouth. She would change him into pajamas, tuck him into bed, and read him a story. She cared for him more diligently than ever. The couple offered to pay Ms. P extra for overtime, but she refused. “There’s no need for that.” Those weren’t empty words. “This is my job.” Or she said, “Don’t worry about it.”

      A few days later, after putting the boy to bed, Ms. P went to the kitchen. She hesitated, but then opened the cabinet. She recalled what the boy’s mother had said on her first day: “Please, consider this your home.” Ms. P took out her favorite teacup, the one with a delicate little bird painted on it. She put it back, then took it out again. She poured hot water into it, got a purple tea bag from the tea box, unwrapped it, and placed it in the cup. After a while, she removed the tea bag, threw it in the trash, and walked into the living room. She carefully placed the teacup on the coffee table and this time turned off all the lights in the apartment—the living room, kitchen, and empty rooms—leaving only the decorative lamp on in the living room. She sat on the sofa, pulled out the book she had brought, and began to read. Please, consider this your home. For the first time, Ms. P felt she truly understood what the boy’s mother had meant.

      Several days later, Ms. P opened the door to the study and went inside. She hesitated a little before taking a book from the shelf. She no longer needed to bring along a book in her small bag. There were plenty of books to read in that home.

How would one describe that fall? Six years later, a group of well-dressed women were having lunch and chatting in a restaurant with a small porch. They had just begun to open up, sharing their struggles and bonding with each other. They talked about their children’s falling grades, big losses in stock investments, the promotions their husbands didn’t get, and bad real estate deals. Of course, they planned to enroll their children in more classes at their cram schools, make other investments to recoup their losses, and buy new cufflinks to raise their husbands’ spirits. The boy’s mother showed signs of aging, but she looked more elegant and beautiful because of it. She wondered why they had to talk about such things on a day when sunlight bathed the streets and the leaves rustled in vibrant colors. Yet, as she listened, that fall suddenly came to mind. Actually, it wasn’t a sudden recollection. The first time she recalled that period was three years ago in the summer. Since then, that fall had often crossed her mind, whether she wanted it to or not. Many things happened that season, as if they had all been orchestrated. She’d been busy preparing for the “Contemporary Art of Eastern Europe” exhibition, their weekend helper had quit unexpectedly to care for her grandchild, and her husband’s legal team at work was in crisis due to the deaths of several factory workers. Most shocking of all, her mother-in-law was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Her husband’s only sister lived abroad, so they had to take in her mother-in-law. Her husband said they had “missed the window” to intervene, which led to several arguments between them. But did they ever have a chance to intervene? She’d never mentioned her mother-in-law’s diagnosis to anyone. She vaguely knew Alzheimer’s could be hereditary and worried that it wasn’t just her mother-in-law’s illness but a foreboding mark on the genes of her husband, who held a fairly high position for his age, and her son, who was now over eleven and enjoyed being alone.

      Her thoughts naturally turned to Ms. P, who had cared for her family and mother-in-law. Perhaps she had always wanted to think about Ms. P. Her memories spiraled back to the night when she had wondered about the lives of “those kinds of women” while in her husband’s arms. She believed that autumn was the most difficult time of her life. But that was naïve of her. Every time an unforeseen hardship invaded her life, she felt cursed, but in this case, who was cursing whom?

      Now it was her turn to speak. She didn’t want to say anything but also didn’t want to seem odd or boastful.

      “A few years ago, my mother-in-law came to live with us because she was ill. You see, she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.”

       She was shocked to hear herself say “Alzheimer’s” out loud for the first time. But she quickly realized the other women were more shocked. They had never wanted to hear such things. Yet they recovered quickly.

      “Oh my, taking care of a sick mother-in-law isn’t easy.”

      “At the time, I was working as a curator at an art gallery.”

     “She studied art history in France,” added another woman, who knew her well.

      Someone sighed in admiration. “Do you speak French well?”

     “Qu’est-ce que c’est, ça va, merci beaucoup,” she said playfully.

     The women laughed heartily, drawing the attention of others in the restaurant.

     “Taking care of my family and my mother-in-law on top of my job was really tough.”

     “Oh my, I can’t even imagine. You’re amazing.”

     “Our nanny helped a lot with our son. I don’t know what we would have done without her,” she said humbly, quickly adding, “But no matter how much help you get, you know how hard it is.”

      No one asked how her mother-in-law was doing now, and she was relieved. Her mother-in-law had passed away last year.

      She cleared her throat. “But now, it’s all over.”

     If Ms. P ever had the chance to talk about that period, what would she have said? She might have said, “That family had only me. They were so grateful. You couldn’t find a couple with such grace and elegance. They never forgot a kindness.” However, Ms. P would probably never have the opportunity to share that story, because no one is  interested in her past.

      Even after many years, Ms. P could still remember the day she first met the elderly woman with Alzheimer’s—a patient wearing a navy cashmere cardigan, pearl necklace, and pearl ring. One morning, much later, when Ms. P was about the same age as the old woman had been, she was washing her face when she looked in the bathroom mirror and became lost in thought. It was then that she decided to erase the old woman from her memory. But this was far into the future. That fall, however, Ms. P was simply amazed that a nearly seventy-year-old woman with Alzheimer’s could look so neat and elegant.

      Ms. P arrived early every morning to help the couple get to work. She did the shopping, cooking, cleaning, laundry, and took care of the boy and the elderly woman. Sometimes, she took them for walks or to the hospital. After the couple left for work, Ms. P picked the elderly woman’s outfit—a different one each day—along with a necklace, clip-on earrings, and a ring, until one day the woman hit Ms. P in the face while wearing the ring, and it was never taken out of the jewelry box again. Sometimes the elderly woman got angry at Ms. P, saying she’d chosen the wrong clothes and accessories, but soon forgot she’d even gotten angry. 

      “My mother is so lucky to have you. I don’t know what we would have done without you. Thank you so much. We didn’t know what to do…” the father often said.

      The young couple, floundering with fear and sadness, gradually found their balance again with Ms. P’s help.

By the weekend, Ms. P was exhausted. Her back ached, and her shoulders throbbed so much every time she lifted her arms that she needed to apply pain relief patches. Luckily, the child liked the smell of the patches. Just by seeing the mess in the apartment on Monday, Ms. P could tell what kind of weekend the family had. She couldn’t bear the thought of the young couple struggling without her. So, one Saturday afternoon, when the father called, sounding completely defeated and anguished, Ms. P felt a deep sense of relief.

      When she arrived, the father looked half-crazed, and the mother—Ms. P was shocked by her appearance—had a puffy face, messy hair held back by a headband, and was still in her nightgown. The boy sat on the couch in his pajamas, clutching an encyclopedia, looking as if he hadn’t even washed his face. The old woman was locked in her room.

     “We had no choice,” the father said, his voice full of shame, guilt, and sorrow. 

     The elderly woman burst into tears upon seeing Ms. P, saying she wanted to go home. 

     “But Mother, this is your home!” the father said.

     Ms. P told the father to clean the living room while she bathed the elderly woman and the boy. She told the mother to wash her face, brush her hair, and get changed. The mother came back shortly after, dressed in a knit shirt and slacks, and asked Ms. P what she should do next. Ms. P told her to air out the elderly woman’s room and put the bed covers in the wash. She did as she was told. Ms. P first bathed the child, dressed him, and sent him to his mother. Then she helped the elderly woman bathe, took out a green sweater and skirt from the closet, and dressed her—later on, the father would recall how his mother had looked like a Christmas tree that day—not forgetting her pearl necklace and earrings. After a day filled with intense emotions, the elderly woman ate a large helping of the meal Ms. P prepared and went to bed early.

       That night, Ms. P had dinner with the boy and his parents for the first time. The couple felt as though they’d just been rescued from a disaster. As Ms. P watched those poor kids—the young couple who’d been so distressed just moments before but now sat neatly and elegantly eating their meal—she recalled that song again: The seagulls stir the heart because while sinners sin, the children run and play. Because the children run and play. Because the children run and play. Because the children run and play. . .

      “I’m so sorry. We didn’t even think to call a doctor. We just thought of you,” the father said for the fifth time, looking at Ms. P.

      “No, no, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” Ms. P said, helping the boy eat. The boy sat next to her, practically hanging onto her shoulder. Normally, she would have insisted the child eat on his own, even if it took a long time, but that day she spooned the food into his mouth.

      “My mother doesn’t recognize me. She doesn’t recognize her daughter-in-law or even her grandson,” the father said.

      “She’ll get better soon,” Ms. P reassured him.

      “What if she doesn’t? What will we do then?” the mother asked. 

      Ms. P didn’t know the answer. She couldn’t possibly know. Yet, she felt she had to give the young mother some kind of response.

      “She’s very ill,” she said.

      “She’s ill,” the boy repeated after her.

      “It was awful. We didn’t know what to do. Mother was doing well, wasn’t she? She was perfectly fine until yesterday,” the father said, rambling. “My wife and I are so busy these days. Just look at the boy.  Of course, you’re taking great care of him, but what I’m trying to say is. . . I don’t know. . . everything’s a mess. Did you hear, Ms. P? People who worked at our company factory died. But we have so many documents to review and draw up, so what I’m trying to say is. . .”

      “Honey, you don’t have to explain anymore,” the mother said, trying to comfort her husband.

       But the father kept talking. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m just so scared. What happened to Mother? I mean, I know she’s sick, but what are we supposed to do. . . I couldn’t think of anything except to call you. I . . . we . . .”

      The father started to cry. The boy, seeing his father cry, began to cry too, and soon the mother joined in. But Ms. P wasn’t flustered at all. It was as if she had expected this moment, or felt it was her duty to resolve the situation, and she calmly comforted each one of them.

      “I’m sorry. We didn’t know what to do. . . everything’s falling apart. . .” the mother said, sobbing. 

      “You poor things, don’t say any more. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

      Ms. P looked after them until they stopped crying. After they finally finished their meal, she cleaned the table and did the dishes. She took out the teacups painted with a delicate bird and heated three cups of milk, making one cup of tea for herself. They all sat together at the coffee table and drank. Ms. P stayed at the apartment until the family went to bed.

      For the next two months, Ms. P went to their home every single day without fail. The couple tried to hire a professional caregiver, but Ms. P insisted it wasn’t necessary.

      “I can manage everything on my own,” she said.

       One Friday night near the end of fall, as Ms. P was leaving, the mother said, “You don’t need to come in this weekend. Please get some rest. You’ve been working so hard lately.”

      “No, it’s all right. Who’ll take care of Grandmother if I’m not here?”

      “Don’t worry about it. You need your rest, too,” the mother said, taking Ms. P’s hand for a moment before letting go.

      Later, Ms. P found out that the elderly woman had been sent to a nursing home, one of the best and most expensive, according to the research done by the boy’s maternal grandmother. 

     “We’ll be visiting her every weekend,” the mother said, as if justifying their decision.

      And indeed, unless something special came up, the family visited her every Sunday until she passed away. Ms. P felt a little hurt that they hadn’t asked her opinion about sending the elderly woman to the nursing home, and she had a question for them, but ultimately, she couldn’t ask it. Later, much later, Ms. P felt thankful she hadn’t asked. 

      With the mother-in-law gone, Ms. P finally had her weekends to herself. It’s not bad. It’s good, everything is fine. It’ll be okay. Nothing bad will happen. Ms. P muttered these things to herself, almost as if she were praying, as she applied pain relief patches to her shoulders and back.

      There were still many tasks Ms. P did for the family. She did the shopping and cooking, ate dinner with the boy, and read books by the light of a small lamp while sipping tea after he went to bed. They couldn’t go to the park anymore since the weather had turned cold, but reading to the child or playing indoors wasn’t bad. Soon after, the “Contemporary Art of Eastern Europe” exhibition at the museum where the mother worked ended successfully. Actually, “successful” was an understatement. The exhibition was a huge hit. Articles about it appeared in local newspapers and women’s magazines. There were even pictures of the mother, smiling confidently at the camera. The father’s work issues were also resolved without the company having to take any action. Just as Ms. P had said, nothing bad happened. Though not as often as before, the couple now managed to have dinner with the boy more often than not.

      As Christmas approached, the couple decided to make up for the summer vacation they had missed and flew to a small island in Southeast Asia with their boy for a few days. For the first time in a while, Ms. P also had a long break. She planned to go on a trip as well, but ended up going nowhere. On the last day of her vacation, she stopped by a bookstore, bought a stack of books for the child, and then sat alone in a downtown café, sipping tea and watching the snow drift past the window. It snowed a lot that winter. The café was filled with a mix of post-Christmas fatigue, lingering excitement, and vague anticipation for the new year. Across from Ms. P sat a couple in their early forties, having tea and sharing a fruit tart with a girl who seemed to be their daughter. The girl checked her phone every now and then, but also laughed, complained, or talked at length to her parents. Ms. P watched them for a while. How long did she watch them? Suddenly, the girl looked up, and their eyes met. Ms. P quickly gathered her things and left the café. It wasn’t because she’d been caught staring, but because she wanted to call her younger brother all of a sudden. Having left her cell phone at home, she had to look for a payphone. She walked over five blocks, and her socks became soaked and the ends of her hair froze from the snow, but she finally found a payphone.

      At last, when winter ended, Ms. P resumed her walks. She asked the boy if he was happy, and he said he was, holding her hand tightly. In the park, Ms. P still didn’t talk to the other young women. As always, she read her book, watched the child, and taught him what was appropriate and what was not. The family hired a new helper for weekend housework, giving the mother more free time, so Ms. P no longer needed to cook or clean. Sometimes, though, she still prepared snacks until the boy’s parents returned. They ate together a few times in the winter, but when spring began, they didn’t have a chance to share another meal. Occasionally, she stayed late when both parents were delayed, but that was rare. Ms. P wasn’t disappointed. She believed her life had entered a new phase of stability.

      The couple also felt their lives had entered a new phase. The father sometimes went golfing with his superiors on Saturdays, an invitation that wasn’t open to just anyone. The mother’s dedication during the “Contemporary Art of Eastern Europe” exhibition earned her high praise. The family dined out often and visited the nursing home on Sundays. The father believed his mother’s condition was improving, and it actually was.

      One day, when the mother punched in the door code and entered the apartment, she was struck by a strange feeling. Why does Ms. P always leave only the small lamp on? Why does she keep the apartment so dark? She watched as Ms. P greeted her, folded the corner of the page, and put the book back on the shelf. Why doesn’t Ms. P use a bookmark? It was hard to believe that she had seen this scene many times before. After Ms. P left, she looked at the teacup left in the sink—the teacup with a delicate little bird painted on it. The set was from England and her favorite. She had inquired at the department store several times, waiting two months for it. It had been worth the wait.

      That night, she told her husband they should enroll their child in full-day daycare.

      Ms. P’s job as a nanny ended.

      A few months later, the father got promoted, and the mother became a permanent staff member at the museum. Everything was perfect, and nothing was wrong. Truly, nothing bad had happened.

The night she was let go, Ms. P lay in bed, recalling the night view from their apartment. She had enjoyed the pleasant autumn breeze while watching the bridge and its lights across the dark river, the procession of car lights, and the giant Ferris wheel in the distance. She had wondered: What would happen if all those lights went out? If that ever happened, she’d believed she would know exactly where to run.

      Had she been wrong?

      She thought about the wrong choices, the misguided thoughts, the futile hopes, the resignation, and the losses that marked her life. It had always been that way. She had always thought it was courage, only to realize later it wasn’t. So what was it then? There were times she wanted to cling to something. She felt that life—her life—was a series of struggles and prayers. A prayer not to pray anymore. Please help me not to make another foolish decision. She had wished desperately that she would stop praying.

      Back when she was young, she should have continued studying for the exam to become a full-time teacher. She thought of her parents, her incompetent parents who had depended utterly on her, yet whom she had loved dearly. And her younger brother’s family. They had a child, too, but she had never seen him. She had been happy once, too. There had been times when she had loved and been loved. Times she thought would never end. In the end, there was no one by her side, but that wasn’t a life she chose—just as anyone wouldn’t. Yet she believed that someday, a small event would resolve all the wrongs.

      The young couple told her that they were moving abroad and wouldn’t need her anymore. Ms. P knew it was a lie. But what did it matter if it was a lie? For them, nothing bad would ever happen. That adorable boy would grow up well, loved by his parents. How smart and wonderful he would become! Maybe one day, he would become a dashing teenager and talk about her. The young, elegant, cultured couple might have once been her students in history—maybe social studies or geography. But Ms. P knew that was a stretch. Still, she hoped the children she had taught were growing up somewhere, elegant and in good health, living in tall, clean towers, driving nice cars, speaking with refinement, and holding important roles in society.

      That’s life, she thought. It’s going to be all right. Someday, all the wrongs will be made right, like one pull on a string that would untangle the knot. Ms. P thought of these things as she closed her eyes. Falling asleep was always easier than she expected.

Translated by Janet Hong