I was about to make bibimbap for dinner when I stopped in my tracks—I’d run out of sesame oil. I thought about substituting perilla oil, but a quick check of the fridge showed that it was gone too. I was surprised; we had never once run out of oil before. In a hurry, I texted my mom:
“Mom, we’re completely out of sesame oil. Could you send some—either sesame or perilla is fine.”
Whenever I asked Mom for something, a package would show up at my doorstep within two days, without fail. But this time, even after a full week, nothing arrived.
A few days later, my younger sibling called me late at night. She’d spoken to Mom and told me she hadn’t been feeling well.
“But sis, Mom told me not to tell you. She didn’t want you to worry.”
I promised to keep quiet and hung up. Then I immediately called Mom. Pretending I didn’t know anything, I casually asked how she was doing.
“The weather’s getting cold. Are you feeling okay? Your voice doesn’t sound good. If something’s wrong, you should go to the doctor.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I already went to the hospital, just in case . . .”
“The hospital?”
That one word opened the floodgates. I gently pressed for more details, and Mom finally admitted what she’d been hiding. Normally she’d be dozing off by 9 p.m., but these days she hadn’t been able to sleep until dawn. She’d been having headaches, trouble digesting food, barely eating. Her voice was hoarse, and even her breathing sounded labored. And yet, toward the end of our call, she said:
“You said you ran out of oil . . . what should we do about that?”
Shame washed over me—asking her for sesame oil when she was the one struggling. I let out an awkward laugh.
“You’re right. We’ve never run out of oil before. It’s strange.”
“Strange? It’s just that I haven’t been feeling well enough to prepare everything on time.”
My mom takes joy in sending us food she grows herself—gochujang (Korean red chili paste), doenjang (a Korean fermented soybean paste), sesame seeds, fruit. She knows exactly when we’re running low and refills things before they’re even close to gone. Oil was one of those things. But now that she was unwell, the smooth rhythm of daily life had been disrupted. Only then did I realize: All the little comforts I took for granted were supported, quietly and faithfully, by Mom’s love.
I suddenly thought, “What would happen if Mom weren’t here?” It would be like a jar shattering into pieces from a single pebble—our peaceful everyday life breaking apart in an instant.
Even while working tirelessly on the farm, she paid attention to every little thing her children might need. And even while sick, she worried more about my empty oil bottle than her own health. The thought pierced me.
Tonight, I pray for Mom’s health. And the truth is . . . that prayer is as much for me as it is for her. With that thought, I sit quietly—holding a heart full of love, and a little bit of shame.