My name is Theresa, and I am sixty-three years old. Looking back on my life, I have learned that some journeys are measured not by miles traveled but by the distance between two hearts.
For many years, my daughter and I lived thousands of miles apart.
Today, when customers walk into our little restaurant and see us working side by side, they often assume we have always been close. They see us laughing in the kitchen, greeting regulars, and sharing stories with visitors. What they do not see are the years of longing, uncertainty, and hope that brought us here.
I became a widow at a young age.
My daughter, Mary Lou, was only a child when her father passed away. From that day forward, it was just the two of us. I worked hard to provide for her, taking extra shifts whenever I could and doing everything possible to give her opportunities I never had.
Those years were not easy, but they were meaningful.
Mary Lou was a bright child. She loved reading, helping neighbors, and asking endless questions about the world. Teachers praised her dedication, and everyone who knew her believed she had a promising future ahead.
As a mother, I felt proud watching her grow into a confident young woman.
When she turned twenty-one, she told me she had met someone special.
His name was Kang Jun.
He was originally from South Korea and was significantly older than she was. My concerns had little to do with where he came from. Instead, I worried about the age difference and the fact that a serious relationship might take her far away from home.
Like many mothers, I wanted to protect my child.
But children eventually become adults, and adults make their own decisions.
Mary Lou believed she had found her path.
After many conversations, tears, and difficult discussions, she chose to move to South Korea. We hugged each other tightly at the airport. Neither of us wanted to let go.
“I’ll be okay, Mom,” she told me.
I smiled through my tears.
“Just promise you’ll take care of yourself.”
