[Weekend Record Episode 1]
Becoming a Son Again
Before the weekend arrives, I return to my weekday self.
Meetings, schedules, unfinished tasks, tired evenings…
But when Friday night comes,
something inside me quietly awakens.
It’s a kind of tension—
and also anticipation—
about meeting my mother the next morning.
On Saturday at dawn,
I wake without an alarm.
Out of habit, I walk toward the kitchen.
Today, I prepare soybean paste bulgogi, stir-fried zucchini,
and pack a carefully brewed kelp broth.
I add the dried anchovy stir-fry I made the night before.
My wife, already awake, simply smiles.
I quietly head to the parking lot.
---
In the car, the radio plays yesterday’s news.
But more than the radio,
I’m focused on the bag of side dishes on the passenger seat.
The familiar voice of the DJ comes through:
> “Who are you on your way to meet right now?”
That question lingers in my heart.
Maybe,
I’m not going just for her.
Maybe I’m going so that I can feel reassured.
I hope she enjoys the food this time.
But that hope usually turns into quiet disappointment.
When I arrive at her house, the gate is already open.
As expected, she’s up before me.
I see her small figure moving in the pepper field.
“You came,” she says—just that.
But that single sentence warms my heart.
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When I step into the kitchen,
the stove is already lit,
and soybean paste stew is bubbling in the pot.
I carefully take out the side dishes I brought.
She glances at them once and pushes them aside without a word.
Though I’ve improved,
my “son’s cooking” still doesn’t meet her standards.
“This one’s too salty.”
“I can’t even tell what’s in this.”
Sometimes, she clears the food away without a word.
I’ve grown used to it.
Now, just sitting beside her and sharing a meal is enough for me.
---
After eating, we head to the pepper field.
She picks up a basket in silence; I put on my gloves.
She always says her knees hurt,
yet she crouches down and tends the pepper stalks with skilled, steady hands.
“What are you going to do with all these?” I ask.
“What else? If I stop, I’ll grow old faster.”
I have no reply to that.
But I’m beginning to understand
the stubbornness and affection hidden in her curt words.
---
Around lunchtime, my younger brother arrives.
Her expression softens a little.
A mixture of relief and weariness flickers on her face.
I quietly step aside,
while she chats with my brother in the kitchen.
“If he brought food again, it probably wasn’t good,”
my brother jokes.
She doesn’t respond—just turns on the gas burner.
I laugh, then step outside to look up at the sky.
---
On the way back home,
my lower back aches.
But her final words linger:
> “When you come, I feel like I need to live a little longer.”
---
In the front seat,
there’s a bag filled with soybean sprout salad, dried radish leaf stew,
and freshly picked green peppers.
The side dish bag feels heavy.
I may have only played the role of a dutiful son,
but still—
she packed that bag for me, with her own hands.
On Saturday night, I return to being a husband and a father.
And then, once again, to my weekday self.
But when the weekend returns,
I become a son again.
Not someone’s husband,
not someone’s father—
just her son.
Becoming a Son Again
Before the weekend arrives, I return to my weekday self.
Meetings, schedules, unfinished tasks, tired evenings…
But when Friday night comes,
something inside me quietly awakens.
It’s a kind of tension—
and also anticipation—
about meeting my mother the next morning.
On Saturday at dawn,
I wake without an alarm.
Out of habit, I walk toward the kitchen.
Today, I prepare soybean paste bulgogi, stir-fried zucchini,
and pack a carefully brewed kelp broth.
I add the dried anchovy stir-fry I made the night before.
My wife, already awake, simply smiles.
I quietly head to the parking lot.
---
In the car, the radio plays yesterday’s news.
But more than the radio,
I’m focused on the bag of side dishes on the passenger seat.
The familiar voice of the DJ comes through:
> “Who are you on your way to meet right now?”
That question lingers in my heart.
Maybe,
I’m not going just for her.
Maybe I’m going so that I can feel reassured.
I hope she enjoys the food this time.
But that hope usually turns into quiet disappointment.
When I arrive at her house, the gate is already open.
As expected, she’s up before me.
I see her small figure moving in the pepper field.
“You came,” she says—just that.
But that single sentence warms my heart.
---
When I step into the kitchen,
the stove is already lit,
and soybean paste stew is bubbling in the pot.
I carefully take out the side dishes I brought.
She glances at them once and pushes them aside without a word.
Though I’ve improved,
my “son’s cooking” still doesn’t meet her standards.
“This one’s too salty.”
“I can’t even tell what’s in this.”
Sometimes, she clears the food away without a word.
I’ve grown used to it.
Now, just sitting beside her and sharing a meal is enough for me.
---
After eating, we head to the pepper field.
She picks up a basket in silence; I put on my gloves.
She always says her knees hurt,
yet she crouches down and tends the pepper stalks with skilled, steady hands.
“What are you going to do with all these?” I ask.
“What else? If I stop, I’ll grow old faster.”
I have no reply to that.
But I’m beginning to understand
the stubbornness and affection hidden in her curt words.
---
Around lunchtime, my younger brother arrives.
Her expression softens a little.
A mixture of relief and weariness flickers on her face.
I quietly step aside,
while she chats with my brother in the kitchen.
“If he brought food again, it probably wasn’t good,”
my brother jokes.
She doesn’t respond—just turns on the gas burner.
I laugh, then step outside to look up at the sky.
---
On the way back home,
my lower back aches.
But her final words linger:
> “When you come, I feel like I need to live a little longer.”
---
In the front seat,
there’s a bag filled with soybean sprout salad, dried radish leaf stew,
and freshly picked green peppers.
The side dish bag feels heavy.
I may have only played the role of a dutiful son,
but still—
she packed that bag for me, with her own hands.
On Saturday night, I return to being a husband and a father.
And then, once again, to my weekday self.
But when the weekend returns,
I become a son again.
Not someone’s husband,
not someone’s father—
just her son.
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