“I hope you die first.”
Ji-hu, lounging in the study with a glass of wine, smiled as he said it. A quiet ripple crossed the surface of the red liquid. I stared at him, dumbstruck. For the first time in ages, the line sounded like someone else’s dialogue.
It must be a joke. It has to be.
Yet I said nothing—only swallowed. And for the first time I realized that what slid down my throat was not wine but a scorching, ill-omened anticipation.
The Hidden Taste of Arithmetic
The word inheritance drifts through marriage like a dormant scent, carrying a weight that may detonate at any moment. The instant it is spoken, a razor-edged silence slices the air between spouses.
Ji-hu knew that. So he wrapped the word in a joke. Peel away the ribbon, however, and what unfurls is a vast plain of whispers we have never dared confess.
“If you die first, how will I spend that money?” “Then if I outlive you, the money will finally be mine.”
We were both calculating. We simply draped the ledger in a cloth called love and pretended not to notice the numbers beneath.
The Ghost Living Inside the House
Truth be told, I once heard a similar story from my friend Min-seo. She said that last year her husband Min-hyeok’s off-hand remark left her feeling as if she’d misplaced a toe.
He sat on the edge of the bed, folding the blanket, and said:
“You know I’m seven years older. So if I die first, the house is just yours. You’ll finally be able to relax.”
Min-seo blinked. Then, in a voice small enough to slip through a keyhole, she answered, “I hope I can relax.”
The words settled on the comforter like bird tracks.
After that night, a ghost moved into their home. Every dawn at three a.m., while Min-hyeok slept, Min-seo opened a real-estate app and imagined how she might redecorate once she was alone.
Another case: my colleague Jun-ho still recalls what his wife Hye-won muttered as she dropped her keys in the entryway.
“They say when Mom passes we’ll get 1.8 billion won. I should finally get my driver’s license and buy an electric car.”
Jun-ho saw a spark in her eyes—the dazzle of someone watching money flutter like confetti. He might have mistaken it for innocent joy, but beneath it lay a greed twice as searing as any love she had ever shown him.
The Hand that Grasps the Taboo
Why are we so sensitive about inheritance? It is not merely about money. It summons the freedom death bestows.
Marriage ceaselessly forges the singular pronoun we. Inheritance, however, is the axe that splits the illusion. The instant mine and yours become unmistakable, we revert to I and you.
“If you vanished, what life would I lead?” “Would that life be freer, or more desolate?”
So we turn it into a joke. We laugh, but behind the laughter crouches a wounded child nursing a forbidden wish.
The Final Glass
As the night deepened, Ji-hu fell asleep. I listened to his breathing and took another sip of wine. This time it tasted not of fruit but of something tart and taboo.
Inheritance is, in the end, the bridge between loving someone and fearing I can live without them. And on that bridge we are forever poised on one foot.
So the question that still lingers is simple:
Even now, in this very moment, am I secretly savoring the thought of a world without you?