On the commute home, a KakaoBank push alert
"Withdrawal: ₩5,000,000. Balance: ₩2,340,000."
The phone pulsed once. I glanced back at Song-yi, asleep in her car seat, then returned to the screen.
Five million won. Not from our joint salary account, but from the one he’d labeled “emergency fund.” Twenty times the Dior lip set he’d given me for my birthday.
That night the family photo on the living-room table felt louder than the TV. Song-yi’s cheeks were absurdly lovely, yet not because they carried my DNA under the title of firstborn.
He tapped her nose in the frame.
"Our girl frowns just like you—adorable."
I almost flinched, but told myself it was fine. It was a moment that wasn’t about me, so it was fine.
Underground garage, October 17, 00:47
He’d claimed a month of late-night fender-benders. Yet the CCTV caught him driving out with a woman beside him. The image was grainy, but the silhouette was clear: beautiful flashed first.
I remembered how his eyes curved when he called Song-yi pretty.
Is she prettier than Song-yi?
Or does Song-yi look prettier because she resembles this woman?
I sat in the car, Song-yi limp in my arms. She laughed in her sleep and squeezed my finger.
The gift from her father: a ₩250,000 Dior lip set.
To the woman: ₩5 million, real-time transfer.
Same October birthday as Song-yi. Same month.
Anatomy of desire
Why did my throat close the moment the word pretty acquired a price tag of five million?
Each time he said firstborn, I felt I was losing something.
Firstborn = my DNA.
If a second child ever arrived and resembled her, I would become entirely dispensable.
Did I only want the word pretty?
Or did I want the emotion he poured into our child to swell until it matched what he once felt for me?
And so the transfer felt addressed to me: "I invest where you are not."
I smoothed Song-yi’s hair; she didn’t notice the tears clumping my lashes.
True-to-life story 1: Born on Line 2
Min-seo, twenty-nine, had opened the new beauty salon next to our complex. He praised her as a natural beauty. Her feed was all dewy skin, no red lipstick—exactly the half-smile Song-yi had.
October 17, her birthday: he reserved a private VIP room.
"Song-yi will wait alone at after-school again."
His text was brief. I was at the office, pretending to work late.
Min-seo never nagged. She replied: "Take your time. Thanks to you, I’m resting somewhere beautiful."
The delicate romance in those words felt, to me, like desire wearing the mask of family.
True-to-life story 2: What bank clerk Kim Yu-jin saw
Kim Yu-jin, thirty-two, processed the five-million-won wire at 2 p.m. He stood at the counter, scribbled Min-seo’s phone number, and slipped in a small note:
Happy birthday. When Song-yi grows up, I hope she turns out like you. Thank you for being so pretty ahead of time.
That evening Yu-jin boarded my train, sat beside me, and whispered:
"I’ve been married five years… Is it possible? To give more to someone who resembles your child?"
I wanted to shake my head. Instead my face said, I don’t know.
She bowed. When the doors opened, she vanished.
I clutched a paper bag: the ₩250,000 Dior lip set for Song-yi.
Why are we drawn to this?
Psychologists call it transference of expanded self-capital. By extending my DNA, I seek to turn something into an irreplaceable investment.
But the investment is always impoverished, because what I truly wanted was myself.
Song-yi’s future is no longer mine, so he chose another beautiful outline to replace it.
Is love an addiction to investing in the most beautiful substitute?
We replicate our DNA while longing for someone who transcends it. The belief that if the child is beautiful, the parent becomes beautiful too. Yet the belief always leaves a crack.
Five million won slid neatly into that crack.
Final question
Tonight, after Song-yi falls asleep, he will leave again. I still haven’t muted the KakaoBank alerts.
And I carry this question:
If Song-yi grows up to be as pretty as her, will I disappear?
Or only then will his five million won finally find its way back to my account?