She had grown up in the same dust and hardship, yet one day she left and came back changed beyond recognition. She had married a Korean man. The first time she returned, stepping out of a shiny car, dressed in elegant clothes, her wrists heavy with gold bracelets that clinked when she moved, the entire village gathered around her as if she were royalty. People whispered that she lived in a mansion, that she never worried about money again.
Children followed her, women stared with envy, and men nodded with approval. Every visit after that only deepened the myth. She spoke of comfort, of stability, of a life where money was no longer a daily fear. “Marry a Korean,” she told me more than once, her voice warm and convincing. “Your life will be different. I’ll introduce you to one. I wouldn’t let you suffer.” At first, I hesitated. Marriage was serious, and marrying a stranger from another country felt frightening. But poverty has a way of quieting fear and amplifying hope. Who doesn’t want to escape a life where every dream feels too expensive? Slowly, the image she painted began to outweigh my doubts.
