One evening, I decided to make bibimbap (a Korean dish made of steamed rice topped with a variety of vegetables, meat, a fried egg, and a savory-sweet gochujang (Korean red pepper paste) sauce, all mixed together before eating) for dinner, only to realize that we were completely out of sesame oil. I thought about using perilla oil instead, but when I checked the fridge, that too was gone. It was the first time we had ever run out of oil, and I felt strangely unsettled. Without hesitation, I texted my mom:
“Mom, we’re out of sesame oil. Could you send some, or maybe some perilla oil?”
Whenever I asked my mom for something, a package would always arrive within two days, without fail. But this time, a week passed, and nothing came.
A few days later, my younger sister called me late at night and said she had talked to Mom, who wasn’t feeling well.
“But you know what? She told me not to say anything. She didn’t want you to worry.”
After hanging up, I immediately called my mom, pretending I knew nothing.
“Mom, the weather’s getting colder. How have you been? You don’t sound too well. If you’re not feeling great, you should go see a doctor.”
“Don’t worry. I already went to the hospital . . .”
“The hospital?”
That one word was all it took for me to start pressing her with questions. My mom, who normally started dozing off by 9 p.m., admitted that lately she hadn’t been able to sleep until dawn. She had been struggling with headaches, poor digestion, and a loss of appetite. Her voice was hoarse, her breathing heavy. Yet, at the end of the call, she said,
“By the way, you said you were out of oil. I’m sorry I couldn’t send it.”
Hearing her worry about something so small while she was unwell made me feel deeply ashamed. I let out an awkward laugh.
“Yeah, it’s strange. We’ve never run out like this before.”
“It’s only because I haven’t been feeling well. I wasn’t able to take care of it ahead of time.”
For as long as I could remember, my mom had taken joy in sending us homemade gochujang (red pepper paste), doenjang (soybean paste), sesame seeds, fruit, and other foods—always before we ever ran out. I had never experienced a pantry running dry, because she always made sure it didn’t. Sesame oil was just one small part of the love she constantly poured into our lives. But now, with her illness, a small ripple had disturbed the once-calm surface of my daily life.
Only then did I realize: the everyday normalcy I took for granted was quietly upheld by my mother’s love.
For the first time, I wondered: What if Mom weren’t here?
The thought hit me like a stone shattering a ceramic jar—what once seemed stable would suddenly fall apart into pieces. Even while busy with farming, my mom had paid close attention to preparing and sending everything her children might need. And now, despite her own suffering, she was still worrying about not being able to send me sesame oil. The thought pierced my heart.
Tonight, I pray for my mom’s health. Yet deep down, I am ashamed that even this may be a selfish wish—for my own peace of mind.