IN THE K-DRAMAS OYIN occasionally watches, the moment a child returns home from school, the Mom will shuffle out to the door, collects their schoolbag and steer the child to the dining.

For as long as Park has lived, none of his parents have ever welcomed him or his older sister at the door: neither have the time to play housewife on children perfectly capable of taking care of themselves.

At the threshold, Park pause as he pings his eyes from the expansive white sectional sofa with more seating than a family of four needs to the high ceilings, arched windows and oppressive brilliant lighting, a sleek polished grand piano to his left that constantly reminds him of childhood tears, pleasure and in one case, his sister's tantrums. 

Feet tired from cycling, he swings left to the sitting room, toes sinking into the soft ornate rug but he hesitates to sit. The meticulously arranged pillows is an art he shouldn't disturb — the aesthetics of it aligned perfectly with the well-placed vases, the flat ebony wooden table and ambiguous artworks mindfully hung on the walls.

The lack of personal touches is an argument noona hadn't won with their parents. Any sign of daily life cleaned away by the family's perfunctory maid. Turning his back, he heads for the staircase, bypassing the kitchen but the family's cook at the stove is deaf to his arrival.

He doesn't bring attention to himself as he walks up to his room, the white walls, white floors, white bulbs a pristine canvas his parents wouldn't appreciate painting on. 

Flawless like him. Perfect presentation like his bedroom. No cluttered space or colors — neutral and cool tones, like the house decor. His study desk is tidied, the multiple organizers that holds various stationeries, notebooks, planners are positioned neatly. 

With practised precision, Park takes a warm shower, changes into clean clothes and brings out his book, focus disturbed at his 6:00p.m alarm, his parents car pulling into the driveway.

Closing the books, Park walks out and pads down the stairs —a fleeting glimpse at the kitchen tells him the cook has gone home — to greet them.

After washing up, they set the table together, a family routine implemented all his life: it's one of the reasons the cook leaves before his parents arrival. Table set, they gather around the table, heads bowed, hands held as his Dad curtly says grace.

The meal begins in silence but Park knows it won't last. He used to play a fun game of countdown until his Mom will reach for her iPad but stopped when it became a crushing reminder.

“How are your studies progressing?” Mom’s voice cut through the quiet, sharp and expectant. Her inquiry is a formality Park only needs to mumble,

“It's going great,” as she reach for her iPad, fingers tapping the screen cross-checking his study plan, homeworks and re-evaluating his schedule with the practiced eye of a seasoned manager.

 Having access to his tasks/study/schedule —a great multifunctional app, highly recommend — is the same as when it hadn't been digital. Except now, it’s faster.

“This new boy you're tutoring” Mom begins, her lips thinning, “I don't understand why you accepted. This is a crucial time that boy is wasting.”

“He is not wasting my time,” Park keeps his voice level. “He's diligent. Does the work I give him and pays attention.”

“If he does all that, he wouldn't need a tutor.”

“I guess some people can't learn until they're spoonfed.”

His Mom hums in disapproval before changing topic. “I had a talk with Oyin just the other day. She told me her university counselor says she has maxed out her current volunteering and advises her to start something new. It is a new term, after all.”

Park says nothing, knowing better than to interrupt.

“Apparently, she is thinking of volunteering at a juvenile prison. As a psychologist observer of some sort. Picking their brains and writing research on the effects and consequences on the youth.” Pausing, Mom eyes him. “You aren't saying anything. She hasn't told you about it?”

"No," Park replies carefully. “I guess she hasn't decided.” 

“The prison hasn't approved the visit. The psychologist she is supposed to shadow is proving stubborn.”

“If anyone can convince them, it's Oyin.” Park says, a hint of admiration in his voice but it must've been the wrong thing to say because his Mom narrows her eyes at him.

“You’ve stopped volunteering except for that narcotics program. Lord only knows why you insist on continuing that one. There's nothing a kid can do if they aren't willing to stop their addiction.”

“They're kids,” Park defends softly.

“Which makes it worse. Their parents are working hard for them, yet they waste it.” His Mom levels him with a piercing look. “You're not addicted to anything, are you? That isn't why you—”

“Of course not, Mom,” Park assures her quickly. “I don't even drink coffee, you know that.”

Mom nods, seemingly satisfied. “You're on a fast-track course for next year. You are preparing hard for it. Don't lose it.”

Park doesn't need the reminder. The weight of it settles on his shoulders every single day. “I won't.”

“I took you out of Green Victory after-school academy. They aren't offering stricter specialized subjects. I've admitted you to Honors Gate. They offer the best Korean literature in the area. All you have to do is pass the admission tests." His Mom’s voice brooks no argument. 

“On your desk, you'll see the textbooks I purchased. Study them. The test is Friday. Mr. Jay sent last week’s homework. Revise and study the problems you missed.”

Park nods obediently, his mind already cataloging the tasks ahead. 

“I have cancelled your flute lessons. Focus on the violin and piano. You have dropped out of the cycling club, haven't you?”

“I have,” Park automatically says, killing the guilt that attempt to rise at the lie.

“Good. Anything that isn't academically focused, do not spend any time on them. You're smart, but there are smarter Korean kids out there.”

The words stings but Park mods again. He understands. In the pursuit of excellence, second place might as well be last.

Setting down the iPad, Mom’s tone shifts slightly. “The lab I reached out to five months ago finally responded. They said they'll be willing to allow you to shadow them. It is still biochemistry, isn't it?”

It is not. He has changed it again. Mom hears him without him speaking.

“What is it this time?” she impatiently demands.

“Plastic surgery.”

“No.”

“Hear me out—”

“Choose another. You won’t be a cliche Korean.”

Park flinch at the condescension. He glance at his Dad calmly eating, unfazed by the casual stereotypical racism. 

“It is reconstructive surgery. It’s not just pretty faces and breasts lifts.”

“I said no.” Mom repeats, finality in her tone.

“A doctor is a doctor.” He tries weakly. 

Dad, who had been silent until now, interjects. “What about an ophthalmologist?”

“No,” Mom firmly rejects it. “A cardiothoracic surgeon. This is good, Park. Although you made me waste my time chasing that lab, it turns out for the best.”

A lump of resignation sits at his throat. “Cardio thoracic surgeon it is.”

“Good,” his mother says, satisfaction evident in her voice. “The both of you will turn heads. Oyin as a neurosurgeon and you as my surgeon. Just like your grandfather.”

“What about dentistry?” Park ventures, a one last attempt.

“No,” this time, it’s his Dad. “Anything but dentistry.”

“Not anything,” Mom corrects.

 “To take over the family business?”

“The family clinic is not your future,” she continues. "Grandfather's hospital is. Don't aim low, Eugene. What have I said?”

“Sky is the limit,” Park recites dutifully.

“That's right,” for the first time since he sat to dinner, Mom nods in approval. “The world is your oyster.”

As Park absorbs his Mom's words, he feels a mix of comfort and pressure. His path has been laid out for him, a legacy stretching to his grandfather. The weight of filial piety, of honouring his family and that legacy fits on him like a familiar rain soaked cloak.

That is why his Mom — a drill sergeant and guardian — pushes him, pushes them harder, a tough love that demands nothing but the best. 

After dinner concludes and Park clears the table, he retreats to his room to study, carrying with him the mantra of greatness no matter what, burying the wayward thought that his Mom has narrowed and suffocates his individuality. 

This is the only way to succeed.

Park sits at his desk, surrounded by the books his Mom has chosen, the schedule she has designed, the future she has ordained. Taking a deep breath, he continues from where he’d stopped, certain of two truths.

Sky is the limit and mother always knows best.