Prologue
If only I could start my life over from here.
I had imagined it more times than I could count.
I thought about it in my teens.In my twenties.By my thirties, it had practically become a hobby.
What if I had chosen differently back then?
What if I hadn’t dated that man?
What if I had studied harder?
What if I had listened to my mother a little more?
Or, actually, what if I had stopped listening to her much sooner and run away?
What if I hadn’t said that stupid thing?
What if I hadn’t hurt that person?
What if—
Once you started thinking like that, there was no end to it.
People said life was a series of choices.
If that was true, then maybe my life had been some kind of game where I had enthusiastically selected the wrong option every single time.
Except games let you reload.
Life didn’t.
No save points. No reset button.
What a terrible game.
I stared at the can of chu-hi sitting on the low table in front of me.
It was Christmas.
It was also my birthday.
As of today, I was forty years old.
Forty.
There was something brutally final about that number.
Thirty-nine and forty were only one year apart, logically speaking, but emotionally it felt like someone had pushed me off a cliff.
I sighed loudly.
No one heard me.
The television was showing some cheerful Christmas special.
Sparkling illuminations.
Happy families.
Couples smiling at each other.
Cake.
Roast chicken.
Champagne.
Enough.
This was not the kind of programming a woman spending her fortieth birthday alone needed to see.
I switched off the television.
The room immediately became silent.
The hum of the refrigerator suddenly seemed much louder.
“Happy birthday to me.”
I tried saying it out loud.
That only made things worse.
When I was younger, I had imagined forty differently.
I thought I would have accomplished something by then.
Maybe I would have a successful career.
Maybe a happy family.
Maybe, at the very least, someone beside me whom I genuinely wanted to laugh with.
Instead...
Well.
I had gotten married.
I had children.
I had become a mother.
I had done the whole “family” thing.
And somehow, I had still managed to screw it up.
If someone asked me exactly what had gone wrong, I wouldn’t have known how to answer.
There wasn’t just one thing.
I had been wrong.
Other people had been wrong.
Circumstances had been wrong.
Timing had been wrong.
Maybe nothing had been completely broken on its own.
Everything had just been slightly misaligned until, one day, I looked around and realized I had no idea where to start fixing it.
I had tried, though.
At least, I thought I had.
I raised my children.
I worked.
I cooked and cleaned.
I cried.
I got angry.
I endured things I probably shouldn’t have endured.
I ran away from things I probably should have faced.
I clung to people.
Then I hurt them.
“I really did try to live properly.”
I paused.
“...No. That’s overselling it.”
Let’s revise that.
I lived.
Somewhat.
I had done plenty of stupid things too.
I had hurt people.
I had caused more than enough trouble for men.
Actually, not just men.
Friends.
Family.
My children.
God, I had been selfish.
If someone told me that spending my fortieth birthday alone was poetic justice, I wouldn’t have had much of a defense.
Still—
I loved my children.
That part was true.
I had just been terrible at loving them properly.
There were times I pushed them away because I was exhausted.
Times I found them irritating.
Times I wanted to be left alone.
Times their crying made me angry.
Times I was too busy drowning in my own problems to notice theirs.
Children didn’t care whether their parents were tired, confused, depressed, angry, or barely holding themselves together.
They still called for them.
Of course they did.
They were children.
Back then, even that had felt heavy to me sometimes.
Now the memory hurt.
“I’m sorry.”
The words disappeared into the empty room.
My children weren’t here.
The apology wouldn’t reach them.
My phone was lying on the table.
I could call them.
I could message them.
But what was I supposed to say?
Sorry your mother suddenly became emotional because she’s lonely on her birthday?
That would only make them worry.
No.
I didn’t want to use my children to manage my own feelings anymore.
And that was exactly why I wanted to go back.
I wanted another chance so badly it hurt.
Not because I wanted to erase them.
Never that.
If starting over meant they would never exist, I didn’t want it.
I wanted the impossible version.
I wanted to have them again.
The same children.
The same faces.
The same voices.
The same strange little habits.
I wanted to meet them all over again from the beginning.
This time, I would hold them properly.
I would listen when they cried.
I wouldn’t make that tired, irritated face.
When they called, “Mom,” I would actually turn around.
“...As if life works that conveniently.”
I gave a bitter little laugh and lifted the can.
I was terrible at drinking.
Truly terrible.
Normally, I barely touched alcohol at all.
Yet for some reason, tonight I had decided drinking alone was a perfectly reasonable birthday activity.
Because it was Christmas.
Because it was my birthday.
Because I was lonely.
Any excuse would have worked.
My throat felt warm.
My head had started to float pleasantly.
I leaned back against the sofa and stared at the ceiling.
“Oh, God.”
I clasped my hands together.
Whether I was actually praying or just being ridiculous while drunk, even I couldn’t tell.
“If you exist, please let me start my life over while keeping all forty years of my memories!”
My voice echoed through the empty room.
“I’ll become a better person this time! Seriously!”
On reflection, my tone was rather demanding for someone speaking to God.
But I was drunk, so I decided not to worry about theology.
“I’ll study! I’ll be nicer to people! I won’t spend all my time chasing men!”
I stopped.
That one might be difficult.
“...I’ll try not to chase men so much!”
Much better.
“I’ll work hard! I’ll be a good daughter—well, depending on how my parents behave. And I’ll definitely be better to my children!”
My prayer was becoming less and less holy by the second.
I laughed at myself.
Then, without warning, tears slipped down my face.
“Was everything really my fault?”
The laughter disappeared.
“Where did I go wrong?”
When I was a child?
Middle school?
High school?
When I left home?
When I discovered men?
When I got married?
When I became a mother?
Or had something already gone wrong before any of that?
Maybe from the moment I was born?
“...I don’t know.”
That was the problem.
I didn’t know.
Maybe that was why I wanted to do it all again.
Not just to make different choices.
I wanted to see everything again.
To understand things I hadn’t understood the first time.
Why my mother became the way she did.
Why my father behaved the way he did.
Why my brother eventually came to hate me.
Why I had spent so much of my life desperately wanting someone to love me.
Everything.
I wanted to see it from the beginning.
“If I could live it all again...”
My eyelids were getting heavy.
“Maybe I’d finally understand.”
My body sank deeper into the sofa.
“Please, God.”
My voice had become a whisper.
“Let me start over.”
I smiled faintly.
“You’re supposed to give people what they ask for, right?”
My eyes closed.
“Right...?”
That was the last thing I remembered.
After that—
nothing.
