Dad and I arrived at the Napa County USDA agricultural support office located on the outskirts of Napa Valley, California.
In the bright afternoon sunlight, the words "United States Department of Agriculture" gleamed above the entrance of the small brick building.
As we stepped inside, a cool breeze from the air conditioning greeted us, along with a clean, orderly atmosphere.
"Welcome. How may I help you?"
A staff member with a bright, courteous voice welcomed us.
The man, who looked to be in his forties, wore a neat gray suit and had carefully combed blond hair. Smiling, he guided us to the consultation table.
Dad glanced at me once, clearly nervous, then spoke carefully.
"We're thinking about acquiring a vineyard. We haven't been in the country very long, so we wanted to ask what kind of support we might be eligible for from the federal or state government."
He had come partly to confirm whether what his son had said was really true, and partly to learn about the actual funding application process required for an acquisition.
The staff member smiled and pulled out several informational pamphlets, spreading them open. His finger traced the pages as he explained clearly.
"I see. You've made a good decision. In particular, there are special government-supported programs for immigrant families. Support for Socially Disadvantaged Applicants, to be precise.
Forty-five percent of the farm's price can be financed by the USDA at a long-term, low interest rate, and the remaining fifty percent can be borrowed from a private bank with a USDA guarantee.
As a result, the cash you need to prepare yourself is just five percent of the farm's price."
As he listened, Dad's eyes slowly widened, and I could see a light of hope settle in them.
He had come holding a faint sense of expectation, yet also worrying that maybe his son had misunderstood something.
Now that he knew what his son had said was true, his heart began to race.
"Really… only five percent? Even though a vineyard isn't cheap?"
The staff member nodded with a reassuring smile.
"Yes, that's correct. Many people have successfully operated farms through this program. I can also help you with the application paperwork and approval process, so there's no need to worry."
Dad turned his gaze toward me.
"Woo-seok… what do you think? Do you really think we can do this?"
I met Dad's eyes with firm conviction.
"We can do it, Dad. Leave it to me. We can definitely save this farm."
Dad looked at my face for a moment, then smiled and spoke to the staff member again.
"Alright. Then please explain in detail how we should proceed from here."
The staff member continued with a bright smile, explaining each step one by one…
"Very well. First, you'll need a contract with the farm owner. You'll sign the contract at the agreed transaction price and pay five percent of that amount as a down payment. After that, you'll submit the contract along with various land certificates, a business plan, statements of debts and assets, a credit report…"
Although I had earned a PhD in agricultural science, I had never actually been a farm owner, so I flinched at the unexpected flood of paperwork.
Dad, however, seemed to regard it all as perfectly normal, carefully writing down every detail.
Watching him, I wondered if I had misunderstood him all along.
'I thought he failed just because he was incompetent… but maybe Dad really did try his best and simply had bad luck. I knew nothing and just hated him.'
A wave of self-reproach passed through me, and then—
'From now on, I'll just help him with the farm as best as I can.'
I wrapped things up that simply in my mind.
"Good. I've made an appointment with the farm owner for tomorrow. He's not here today—probably out trying to secure money. When I said I wanted to take over the farm, I could tell he was pleased."
"That's great."
"Alright… now you go to school."
"What?"
"Were you not planning to?"
The reason Dad had let me skip school and follow him this morning was because he acknowledged how important this matter was.
But now that we'd done what we could for the time being, he told me to hurry back to school, so I grabbed my bag at home and headed out.
And at school, there was someone waiting for me.
"Brian! You're coming today, right?"
"Ah… Rachel…"
I arrived close to lunchtime, yet somehow she knew.
She stood there looking down at me in the exact same pose as yesterday—arms crossed, one leg cocked.
"The part you're presenting is really important. And this group…"
"I know. I'm the one who put it together."
"…?"
"I'll come today. I even prepared."
"Well, that's a relief then. See you later."
The truth was, the reason I didn't want to attend that group was because I didn't want to run into my former wife.
It wasn't hatred—just an awkward feeling. The love I once had for her had already faded from my memory.
I only found out later that she preferred not me, but an Asian accountant she could communicate with more easily. She liked cities more than the countryside, so she was simply a different kind of person from me.
Anyway, when I went to a small lecture room inside Vintage High School after classes, seven Asian students were gathered there.
Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Thai… a small society formed to withstand the natural disaster known as racism.
It wasn't planned that way from the beginning—it just happened naturally.
People who needed fences and information exchange gathered together like bees drawn to flowers.
"Sorry. I was supposed to present yesterday, but something came up."
Feeling the heated gazes, I smiled awkwardly. One person's stare was particularly intense, but I pretended not to notice.
"But I did the research properly."
As I sat down and took out the notes I had prepared, everyone got ready to take notes themselves.
Among them, a girl with a small face, big eyes, and long black hair was staring at me with a gentle smile.
'She really was young….'
Comparing her now to the wife I remembered from my mid-forties in my previous life, it was hard to believe they were the same person.
"I looked into two routes for tax and accounting majors. One is a route where you pay low tuition and get the best cost-performance results. The other is a route where you shoulder high tuition and proudly become a New Yorker."
Rather than having researched it just now, I was speaking from experience gained in my previous life before regression.
"First, assuming you attend a university within California, the CSU—California State University—system has annual tuition around six to seven thousand dollars. It allows low-cost, practice-oriented learning. There's also a strong evaluation that it's advantageous for getting into New York accounting firms. San José State, in particular, is said to be favorable for employment at Silicon Valley companies…"
The information I was sharing was hard for high school students at the time to find through the internet, so everyone's eyes lit up.
Kōen, a slender Japanese friend who was diligently taking notes as if wondering how I'd even found this information, asked:
"Then where are you going?"
"I'm not going to a university here."
"Then?"
"Well… I would've said something different before, but I changed my mind. I'm going to UC Davis. I'm planning to study agriculture there."
At that, everyone was shocked—but the most surprised of all was Elena, my former wife, whose Korean name was Choi Su-jeong.
"Farming? You said you were going to be an accountant?"
I wasn't being forced to go to college just because my parents wanted me to.
In agriculture, there are farmers who merely farm, and then there are farmers who generate high profits through exceptional techniques. And when it comes to making oneself known as that kind of farmer, academic credentials are extremely useful.
Graduating from UC Davis wasn't simply for show—to appease my parents.
"I told you. I changed my mind. I'm going to help my parents with the farm."
At those words, the expression of the girl who had been looking at me with a warm smile all this time hardened. But I didn't care.
"And because of farming, I don't think I'll be able to attend this group anymore. I'm sorry… but I hope you all get good results in your future paths."
I waved to my stunned friends and walked out of the lecture room.
But someone suddenly rushed out after me and grabbed my arm.
"Why are you suddenly saying you're going to farm?"
Seeing Elena's urgent expression, another forgotten memory resurfaced.
"Ah, right. We were supposed to go to NYU together."
"What is this… don't talk like you didn't know."
To send their son to NYU with her, my parents had taken out not only student loans but even personal credit loans, despite their meager means.
Now I clearly understood how heavy that burden must have been on their shoulders.
"I'm sorry. I think I need to stay here. You go to NYU on your own."
At my calm reply, Elena's eyes shook violently.
But I no longer wanted to be entangled with her, so I brushed away the hand gripping my arm and turned around.
"You're really not coming with me? You'll regret this."
Her angry voice rang out behind me.
In her appearance —so different from before—I saw the image of my former wife.
"I'm staying so I won't have any regrets."
With that, I left my former wife behind and severed our connection by my own choice.
The next day, when I went to Redwood Vineyard with my parents, we were able to meet the owner, John Anderson.
Perhaps because he was about to hand the farm over, his face looked especially dark.
"You're saying you want to buy the vineyard? With what money?"
"We qualify for a migrant worker support program."
"Hah! They won't help someone like me, but they'll help migrant workers… damn politicians… It's 1.5 million dollars. Can you even afford that?"
At the sight of John Anderson glancing over at us, Dad flinched.
He knew that with five percent—seventy-five thousand dollars—we could take over the farm, but he still hesitated, wondering if buying it at that price made sense. Seeing his uncertainty, I stepped forward.
"Under normal circumstances, 1.5 million dollars might be reasonable. But right now, the farm has failed and you've put it up for sale. Are you really listing it at 1.5 million?"
"Hah, you little—are you saying I'm lying right now?"
At his sudden outburst, I became certain that John was, in fact, lying.
A vineyard isn't a house—you wouldn't put it on the open real estate market. He would have tried to sell it through acquaintances, and in that case, there wouldn't be a fixed price to begin with.
"Alright then. I'll ask the investors. That should make things clear."
Those words startled him, and he visibly panicked.
"What—what did you say? You think they'll talk cheap if you ask them?"
"At the very least, they'll try to make a deal with us at a reasonable price."
"I have one proposal that would be good for you, Mr. John Anderson, and good for us too. Would you like to hear it?"
Though I looked like a kid who wasn't even an adult yet, I spoke with enough sharpness that John Anderson couldn't help but listen.
"What is it?"
"We lower the acquisition price as much as possible. In the end, most of the purchase money will go to the investors anyway, right? In exchange for lowering the price, we'll entrust you with the distribution of the grapes and wine produced on the farm for the next two years. What do you say?"
It wasn't illegal—but it was the kind of hard-nosed deal-making that would be difficult even for an adult to come up with.
John Anderson's mouth fell open in shock.