My name is Theresa, and I am sixty-three. Looking back, I’ve learned that some journeys aren’t measured in miles, but in the distance between two hearts. For twelve years, my daughter, Mary Lou, lived thousands of miles away in South Korea. We spoke through messages and video calls, but nothing could replace having her beside me.
I became a widow when Mary Lou was a child. I worked hard to raise her alone, and watching her grow into a confident young woman was my greatest joy. When she fell in love with Kang Jun, an older man from South Korea, I worried she was making a decision that would take her too far from home. But she was an adult, and I had to let her choose her own path.
The years passed. Mary Lou worked tirelessly and regularly sent money to help me. Everyone told me how fortunate I was to have such a caring daughter. Yet I still missed her terribly. Every Christmas, I prepared her favorite dishes and set an extra place at the table, secretly hoping that one day she would walk through the door.
Finally, after twelve years, I bought a plane ticket to South Korea. I was terrified, but my desire to see my daughter was stronger than my fear. When I reached her home, I knocked and waited. Then I heard footsteps. When the door opened, we stared at each other before running into one another’s arms. Years of distance disappeared in that embrace.
