It was a bright night, and the moon lit the road. Shadows of trees swayed back and forth as the wind shook their bare branches, and snow along the road blew up and snuck down the back of my sweatshirt. I walked on, my socks drenched, each gust a blow to the face. The sensation in my ears turned from pain to numbness, and my hands, like a clamp forced them straight, were unable to make fists. Exhaustion coursed through my body, bringing me close to desperation. Suddenly I realized I didn’t know where I was going anymore.

I came to a bench on the side of the road. Sweeping off the flakes, I winced as my hand plunged into the icy snow. Finally defeated by my battle against the cold, I sat and contemplated the events that had led me there. Had I been rude, even stubborn?

“You think you’re so grown up. Try living by yourself,” she scolded in Korean. “You wouldn’t last a week.”

“Shut up! You’re so obnoxious,” I yelled. “How old do you think I am? Five? I’m in high school. My god, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as blunt as you.”

“Don’t speak to me unless you’re going to speak in Korean,” my mother responded, continuing to rhythmically chop carrots. “You’ll regret not learning it later.”

“What does that have to do with anything we’re talking about?” I shouted, exasperated. “You can’t even speak English after living here for fifteen years!”

“I don’t have a future to worry about,” she retorted. “Have you finished your homework?” she asked, unfazed by my insults.

“You are so stupid,” I moaned as my rage began to mount. “I can’t stand you anymore.” I marched to my room, packed money, a shirt, and a pair of pants into my backpack. Storming from my room, I headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” my mom implored.

“I’m leaving,” I said curtly.

“In those cloth-”

I slammed the door, cutting her off. I was overflowing with anger. I’ll show her, I thought, as I steeled myself and left the house.

Now, there I was, exhausted and freezing on a bench, my will shattered.

My mother had always been logical and wise, but her constant pestering about school and grades – my entire academic future and my life prospects – wore me down. Eventually the stress made its way into my head. Rather than irritation, I became infuriated.

My parents had struggled in a brutal post-war Korea, leaving their lives behind in order to give their children opportunity – the opportunity not to experience the pain and hardships they had. As parents, they had done everything in their power to give us the American dream, to maximize our odds of success. Now, they were nervously awaiting the results of that gamble. Of course, as an adolescent, it was easy for me to forget these realities and act on raw emotion. I had become illogical and immature, and lost all measure of equanimity. I yielded to my rage and dismissed my parents and their sacrifices.

As the winds of winter snapped at my body, it became clear what my parents were so worried about. They feared the endless nights we might spend without food. They feared cold winter nights without heat. They feared life without a job. They feared I might face the same struggles that they had.

I closed my eyes and thought about what I had done; I had spat on what my parents had worked so hard for. As I sat there, the snow began to fall again, coating my body. Its cold fury, remorseless, mocked me as if to say, “How do you like getting spat on?”

With the little will I had left, I stood. I needed shelter. The merciless wind had no respect for those who willingly abandoned their homes. As I began to walk along the road once more, a blinding light flooded my eyes.

A car pulled up. Blinded, I took a step back as a figure stepped out. Suddenly afraid, I turned to run just as a pair of warm arms wrapped around me.

“Not again,” my mother whispered in broken English. Draping a blanket around my shoulders, she helped me into the car. Exhausted, I laid my head back, closed my eyes, and whispered, “I’m sorry, Mom,” truly thankful for all she had done.