The first year after quitting was better than Seoyoon expected.

She no longer had to open her eyes and immediately check the clock. If her daughter spilled food at breakfast, or insisted on putting on her own shoes only to suddenly run off for a toy, Seoyoon no longer felt that same burning impatience.

(Seoyoon): “Okay. Take your time.”

After dropping her daughter off at daycare, she returned home and caught up on housework.

But in the afternoons, she picked her daughter up herself.

The afternoons she had once seen only through photos from the sitter were now hers to witness.

They spent an hour at the playground. They went to kids' cafés on weekday afternoons. If the weather was nice, they might decide on a whim to go to the zoo the next day.

These were things Seoyoon had wanted to do while working but never could.

She was fairly happy.

Maybe quitting really was the right choice.

Sometimes she thought that.

By the second year, though, other thoughts began to creep in.

Her daughter was settled into daycare, and Seoyoon now had a few free hours during the day.

A question from the day she quit came back to her.

What should I try now?

She opened her laptop.

“Returning to work after a career break.”

She searched, then closed the window.

This time:

“Jobs you can do from home.”

Online shopping mall. Blogging. Certificates. Remote work.

Video editing.

One day, after searching for hours, she added an online course to her cart.

280,000 won.

Her finger hovered over the payment button.

If I learn this, can I actually do anything with it?

When she had worked, the company sometimes paid for training if it was relevant to her job. Spending a hundred thousand won or more a month on professional development had never seemed particularly strange.

But things felt different once she no longer had a salary.

In the end, she removed the course from her cart.

I'll look into it a little more first.

That was what she told herself.

And somehow, another year passed.

Three years after quitting, her daughter was five.

In the morning, Seoyoon dropped her off at kindergarten and came home to do the dishes.

Run the washing machine.

Vacuum.

Buy groceries.

Organize the refrigerator.

Prepare side dishes for dinner.

And then, somehow, it was already time for pickup.

It wasn't as if her husband had never done housework.

When they both worked, he took out the trash and vacuumed on weekends.

But after Seoyoon began staying home, things changed little by little.

(Husband): “I'll do it.”

Somehow became,

(Husband): “You can do it later.”

It didn't take very long.

Seoyoon didn't make a big issue of it either.

She was home. He left for work every morning.

It seemed natural.

Around that time, they moved to a somewhat better neighborhood in Seoul because they wanted a better environment for their daughter.

They downsized the apartment to afford it.

And took on a larger mortgage.

Her husband's salary wasn't small.

Yet somehow, money was always tight.

Mortgage interest. Maintenance fees. Insurance.

Food. Weddings and family occasions.

At the beginning of every month, most of the money already seemed to have somewhere to go.

One afternoon, on the way home from kindergarten, her daughter suddenly stopped walking.

It was an art academy in the shopping strip next to the kindergarten.

Behind the glass were origami animals, paintings, and brightly colored clay figures.

Her daughter stared at them for a long time.

(Child): “Mom, did kids make these?”

(Seoyoon): “Yeah. Looks like it.”

(Child): “Wow. They're pretty.”

She pressed her face close to the glass and kept staring even after Seoyoon said it was time to go home.

That night, Seoyoon looked up the tuition.

Twice a week.

180,000 won a month.

She wanted to send her.

Drawing was the thing her daughter loved most even at home. She was also unusually quick with language for her age.

Her kindergarten teacher sometimes said,

(Teacher): “She has such a rich vocabulary. She really loves telling stories.”

Whenever she heard that, Seoyoon thought that if they had a little more room in the budget, she'd like to let her daughter try English in a fun way too.

Art.

English.

A few things the child genuinely enjoyed.

But once she added English on top of the 180,000 won art tuition, it would quickly become several hundred thousand won a month.

Seoyoon tapped at the calculator, then put her phone down.

She's five. What does she need private education for?

At this age, playing is best.

That was true.

Seoyoon had never wanted to pack a little child's schedule with academies.

And yet, something bothered her.

There was a difference between not wanting to do something and not being able to afford it.

The next day, after dropping her daughter off at kindergarten, Seoyoon came home.

Vacuum again.

Hang the laundry.

Open the refrigerator and check dinner.

Soybean paste stew.

Rolled omelet.

Yesterday's leftover bulgogi.

She could already see the shape of the entire day.

Seoyoon picked up her shopping basket and headed out.

On the way to the supermarket was a small lottery shop. Normally, she would have walked straight past it.

A sign outside showed the estimated jackpot for that week.

Seoyoon looked at it for a moment and gave a short laugh.

(Seoyoon): “Wouldn't it be nice if I won that?”

Of course she wouldn't.

Still, for some reason, she didn't feel like walking past today.

She went inside.

(Seoyoon): “One automatic ticket, please.”

She handed over five thousand won, tucked the lottery ticket carelessly into her shopping basket, and continued on to the supermarket.

At the time, that piece of paper was nothing more than a five-thousand-won fantasy purchased on a frustrating day.

A few days later, it would be worth 3.2 billion won.