Do you remember the last words exchanged between you and your father? I do. Don't feel sorry for me yet. He's not dead. He's in his mid-fifties and healthy.
But do congratulate me.
He's dead to me.
One of my favorite moments in my life took place in this house. It was summer time, before phones and internet occupied everyone's life. In fact, the government cut off electricity due to energy shortage. I was the only person at home. I lay down on the wooden floor in what used to be my parents' bedroom. I opened all the windows. Cicadas chirped and the curtains danced with the wind, touching my feet. I read all the books and newspapers that I could find. I fell in and out of sleep on many dreamy summer afternoons.
We moved into this house when I was around 13 years old. I've only been back a few times after I left for the US and later Singapore 10 years ago. But I always considered it my home deep down in my heart. I came back this time because I need to pack all my belongings I left home this summer when I went back home to get a surgery. I am moving to a different country again.
I learned about their last fight when I was in Seoul, South Korea. My mom sent photos of her wounds into the group chat, which consisted of my mom, my siblings and me. I called my siblings immediately. I don't want to expand all the details in this essay but things got violent and brutal. This is a story for another time. I booked a flight from Seoul to San Francisco the day after I knew what happened. I just wanted to be as far away as possible.
Today, the drive back home made me nervous. I played many scenarios in my head. I wasn't sure if I'd be able to get into the house, the house I considered as my home. A man is considered the owner of the home in my hometown, a patriarchy town. After their fight, my dad occupied the house.
Similar situation happened 10 years ago. The summer before I went to US, he drove us out of the house. He threatened that he'd kill me and my mom if we stayed in the house. I left the house with my mom with a few belongings. I only went back to the house to pack my things right before my move to US. Now, 10 years later, history repeats itself. The only difference is that this time, he used technology instead of force.
This time he changed the password combination of the lock.
My sister and relatives warned me about the changed password. I thought about maybe needing to call him if he wasn't home to ask for the password. Would he give it to me? Unlikely. Maybe I could call the police, or maybe just break the lock. It's my house also, it's not a break-in.
11:05 AM.
I parked the car in the yard. His car was parked in the usual spot. I knew he was home.
I walked up to the door. It's the same lock. I tried my fingerprint. It opened.
I opened the door and walked in. He was sitting in the living room. I called him, "Dad." I didn't know it would be the last time ever for me to call him that. He seemed surprised.
The third to last sentence he ever said to me was,
How did you get in? I've changed the passcode.
We had upgraded to a digital lock only this summer, a few months before the fight, when I happened to be home. He and I got our fingerprints recorded into the system. He knew how to change the passcode but didn't know how to delete all the recorded fingerprints.
I responded, "I don't know, I just got in."
All the curtains were down, the living room was dim. He didn't move and I didn't look at him.
I went upstairs to pack all my stuff. It wasn't that many. When I left Singapore two years ago, I already got rid of 95% of all my belongings.
Besides packing my own things, I had tasks assigned by my mom. She left her home of almost 20 years in a rush, almost fleeing. Her life in this house stopped suddenly - her pajamas still on the bed, all her toiletries untouched in the bathroom. Even the water in the foot bath basin was still there and the trash bin wasn't emptied.
It looked like she could come back anytime to continue her life in this house.
I became a treasure hunter in my own home. My major tasks were to collect all her important documents and valuables hidden in various spots: jewelry in a black plastic bag, covered with my sister's books, in one of the cabinets; real estate certificate in a drawer in her room; documents in another drawer in the kitchen. Most importantly, the shirt she was wearing when the fight happened. It was torn. It would be handed to the police. I traveled between rooms, taking photos to send to my mom so she could guide me to all the spots.
I packed everything quickly. I didn't have time to fold her clothes. I was afraid that my dad, the man, would come up and take the valuables from me.
It was 12:05 PM when he said his second to last sentence to me. My mom had rented an unfurnished apartment and wanted to move furniture from our house. Since I was the only one in my family who could get into the house besides my dad, I had to be here when the movers came. I wanted to get out of the house as soon as possible. So I asked him for the passcode.
I tried to remain as calm as possible and asked him, "What's the passcode?"
He stopped for a second and responded,
I don't know. I don't remember.
I didn't say anything. I was buried in anger. This is also my mom's house. This is also my house. He's being so shameless. He's a terrible husband, a terrible father and a terrible human being. Though he had threatened many times before that he's not my father and I'm no longer his daughter, this time he didn't need to say it out loud - I don't have a father anymore.
13:48 PM. I went back into the house with five movers. The man still sat in the living room. I didn't greet him this time. My mom sent another long list of things she wanted us to move. I directed the movers.
Halfway through, I had to go downstairs. He said his last sentence to me. He called my name and then said,
You move anything you want these two days. I will have everything taken out.
I didn't respond and continued what I was doing.
But inside, I wanted to yell at him. I wanted him to be out of the house. I no longer have a home.
His words reminded me of something. After moving everything my mom requested, I went to the third floor, into the room on the right hand side - my room from when we first moved in until I left for university. All my books, notebooks, and gifts from middle school friends were still displayed on the shelf. The man had occupied my room after I left for school, when my parents started living in separate rooms.
I'd left home once 10 years ago, taking my diaries with me. Those notebooks from middle school had traveled to five states in the US and then to Singapore with me. This time, I took all the sentimental things left in the room, all my teenage years' memories with me.
I took a box full of all the notes I exchanged sneakily during classes, the yearbooks from my graduations, the already yellowed and curled selfie photos I took with friends, my first purse - a white and pink one, a book I loved, the card holder my high school classmate made for me. I took all the Certificates of Honor. One of the major ones said I graduated with honors from my high school. I took photos of a few other items and left them in the room.
A few gifts I've received in middle school. I left in the room. I already regretted the decision.
Before I left, I took a video of the room. The green color wardrobe door, the green and white bed frame, the light green curtain and all the books I bought. I said goodbye to the room.
I went downstairs. Closed the front door. Probably for the last time ever in my life.
What is home? For many, it's the house they live in. The house they grew up in. I lost that home today. But I know, for me, wherever I am, it's my home.
