Seoyoon was good at her job. She didn't work for some prestigious conglomerate, and her salary wasn't anything to brag about. Still, when she spoke in meetings, people listened. When younger coworkers got stuck, they came to her desk.

Around her seventh year at the company, her team leader once said,

(Team Leader): “Could this project even run without you, Seoyoon?”

She had liked hearing that.

It wasn't as if she loved work enough to devote her life to it. She hated Monday mornings and loved Friday afternoons. But at least at the office, she knew what she was good at.

Then Seoyoon had a baby and went on maternity and parental leave. A year later, she finally returned to work.

The first thing she had to do before returning was find someone to look after her child. Her mother had undergone knee surgery a few years earlier.

(Mom): “I wish I could help, but with my knees like this...”

Her in-laws lived outside Seoul, in Gyeonggi Province. Once commuting time was factored in, asking them to come every day simply wasn't realistic.

After interviewing several people, she finally found a sitter she liked. Only then could Seoyoon go back to work.

But her days after returning were nothing like before.

Six thirty in the morning. Feed the child breakfast. Get her dressed. Pack her daycare bag. Check the snacks and side dishes in the refrigerator and leave a short note for the sitter.

Then rush to daycare with the child.

Only after dropping her off did Seoyoon look at her phone.

8:21.

If she missed the bus, she'd be late.

By the time she reached the office, messages were already piled up. If the sitter called during an afternoon meeting, Seoyoon's heart dropped—what if something had happened to her child?

And when her daughter developed a fever and Seoyoon had to leave early, she worried about what everyone at work was thinking.

In the end, she was always apologizing to one side or the other.

At work, she felt guilty toward her child.

With her child, she felt guilty toward work.

Still, Seoyoon endured.

She thought it would get easier with time.

About a year after she returned to work, she came home one evening to find the sitter looking unusually serious. She said there was something she needed to tell her.

(Seoyoon): “Is something wrong?”

The sitter hesitated for a long time before speaking.

(Sitter): “I... think I can only work until next month.”

Seoyoon froze.

The sitter's father-in-law, who lived in the countryside, was critically ill. Her husband had to go down there, and she would need to help care for him. She apologized again and again.

Seoyoon couldn't say anything.

It wasn't the kind of reason you could argue with.

(Seoyoon): “No, of course. You have to go.”

That was what her mouth said.

Her mind had already started calculating.

Find someone again. Interview them. Help the child adjust to a new person.

And even then, there was no guarantee how long the next person would stay.

That night, after their daughter fell asleep, Seoyoon and her husband sat across from each other at the dining table.

(Husband): “Guess we'll have to start looking again.”

(Seoyoon): “Yeah.”

Even as she answered, Seoyoon was searching babysitter rates on her phone.

They had gone up since last time.

After paying the sitter, there wasn't nearly as much left from Seoyoon's salary as she had imagined. But it wasn't only about the money.

She thought of the senior women at her company.

Most of the people above team-leader level were men. She could count on one hand the women who were still there in their mid-forties.

Even if Seoyoon somehow hung on until then, her daughter would be in sixth grade or middle school.

That struck her as strange.

During the years when her child needed her hands the most—from now through the early elementary grades—she would pay someone else to care for her.

Then, by the time her child was old enough to go to academies alone and spend time with friends, Seoyoon might be the one staying home.

Her husband asked,

(Husband): “What do you want to do?”

Seoyoon didn't answer for a long time.

Then she said,

(Seoyoon): “Wouldn't it just be better if I quit?”

Her husband didn't object right away.

They talked for a long time.

Money. Their child.

Work. The next few years.

No matter how they calculated it, quitting seemed like the most reasonable choice for their situation.

And strangely enough, once Seoyoon submitted her resignation, she felt a little excited.

She had expected only regret, but that wasn't all she felt.

She wouldn't have to run every morning anymore.

She wouldn't have to bolt out of meetings whenever daycare called to say her child was sick.

She could take her daughter somewhere far away on a weekday.

When she gets a little older, we'll travel.

Maybe I'll learn some of the things I've always been curious about.

I don't necessarily have to go back to another company.

Maybe I can do something online. Maybe I can do something completely different.

I'll rest a little and think about it.

On her last day, Seoyoon returned her laptop and emptied her desk drawer. She removed her employee ID from around her neck and handed it to HR.

Strangely, she didn't cry.

If anything, her shoulders felt lighter the moment she stepped out of the office building.

She stopped at a café, bought a coffee more expensive than she normally would have, and smiled to herself.

What should I try now?

Back then, Seoyoon truly had no idea.

No idea that she would carry that question with her for three years—

without starting anything at all.