At home, I was the oldest child.
My father was the eldest son in his family, and I was his first child, the first granddaughter. Then two younger brothers arrived, one year apart.
My mother had three very young children. Her own parents had died early, so when she needed help, there were no maternal grandparents to call.
One place I often stayed was a nearby uncle's house. It was a large hanok with a square courtyard and a flower bed. My grandmother and great-grandmother were there, along with my uncles. One of them was still in high school. I remember two detached buildings and a bedroom clock that went click, click, click.
I was quieter than my little brothers, so I was probably the easiest child to send for a few days. I missed my mother at night and cried for her sometimes, but I could stay. I was loved there by my grandparents and my uncles.
I watched my grandmother at her dressing table and copied her makeup. Apparently admiration can become a beauty routine very quickly.
When my mother needed more help, I also stayed with an older aunt or a younger aunt. The address changed. My place in the household did not. There too, I became the youngest daughter.
When I think about those years now, I remember missing my mother. I also remember how many people made room for me.
