Jaeho Han was seven the first time he understood what sacrifice looked like.
It was late—past midnight—and he'd woken up thirsty. The apartment was dark except for the faint glow from the kitchen. He padded down the hallway, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and found his father sitting at the table, hunched over a stack of papers. Bills, probably. His father's work uniform hung over the back of the chair, still damp with sweat from the construction site.
"Appa?" Jaeho whispered.
Seungho looked up, startled, then smiled—that wide, warm smile that made everything feel safe. "What are you doing up, little man?"
"I was thirsty."
His father stood, filled a glass of water, and handed it to him. Jaeho drank, watching him over the rim. Even in the dim light, his father looked huge. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. Built like Hercules, his mother always said.
"Appa, why don't you sleep?"
Seungho ruffled his hair. "I will. Just… taking care of a few things first."
"Can I help?"
His father's smile softened. "You already do, Jaeho. You already do."
That was six years ago. Before everything fell apart.
-
The twins came when Jaeho was twelve.
The plan had been one more child. A sibling for Jaeho. Someone to grow up with. But when his mother went into labor, the doctors came out with two babies instead of one. Jia came first, screaming her lungs out. Serin followed three minutes later, quiet and wide-eyed like she was already observing the world.
Jaeho remembered his father laughing in the hospital hallway—this big, booming laugh that filled the whole corridor. "Two! Two girls! Kami's got jokes!"
But the laughter didn't last long.
The workload tripled overnight. Diapers. Formula. Medical checkups. The bills stacked higher and higher, and Seungho started picking up extra shifts. One job became two. Two became three. He'd leave before sunrise and come home after dark, collapsing into bed only to wake up and do it all over again.
Jaeho noticed the change slowly. The way his father moved a little slower. How he winced when he thought no one was looking. How his cough never seemed to go away.
"Appa, are you sick?" Jaeho asked one evening, watching his father rub his chest like it hurt.
"I'm fine," Seungho said, waving him off. "Just tired. That's all."
But he wasn't fine.
-
When Jaeho was thirteen, his father collapsed at work.
They rushed him to the hospital, but the doctors couldn't name what was wrong. Exhaustion, they said. Overwork. Stress. His body had just… given out. They prescribed rest, medication, time off.
Seungho refused all of it.
"I can't stop working," he told Jaeho's mother, Jiyeon, in a low voice. Jaeho was supposed to be asleep, but he heard everything through the thin walls. "We don't have enough saved. If I stop now—"
"Then use the savings," Jiyeon pleaded. "Please. Get proper treatment. We'll figure it out."
"No." His father's voice was firm. Final. "That money is for the kids. For their education. I won't touch it."
"Seungho—"
"I'll be fine, Jiyeon. I promise."
He wasn't.
Three weeks later, Seungho Han died in his sleep.
-
Jaeho stood at the funeral in a borrowed black suit that was too big for him. The twins, barely one year old, were too young to understand. Jiyeon held them both, staring at the casket with empty eyes.
"He worked himself to death," someone whispered behind Jaeho. "For his family."
Jaeho clenched his fists so hard his nails cut into his palms.
After the funeral, his mother tried. She picked up part-time work. She smiled when the twins cried. She cooked meals and kept the apartment clean. But Jaeho saw it—the way she flinched every time she looked at Jia and Serin. The guilt that ate at her like rot.
By the time Jaeho turned seventeen, the savings were gone. The apartment had been downsized. His mother barely ate anymore.
And then one night, she just… left.
No note. No goodbye. Just an empty room and two five-year-old girls who didn't understand why their mother wasn't coming back.
Jaeho called child services himself. Told them he could handle it. He had a job. He could pay rent. He could take care of his sisters.
They didn't believe him. But he begged. And somehow, they let him try.
-
Now, at eighteen, Jaeho worked two jobs, attended school on a scholarship, and kept Jia and Serin fed, clothed, and safe. The bullying at school was relentless. The debt was crushing. The exhaustion was a constant weight pressing down on his chest.
But every night, he tucked his sisters into bed, kissed their foreheads, and whispered the same thing his father used to tell him.
"As long as we keep moving forward, things will work out."
He didn't believe it anymore but he said it anyway.