American Hagwon

by Min Jin Lee

Genres: Asian American; Coming of Age; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

At last, the National Book Award finalist and NYT bestselling author of Pachinko returns with a breathtaking contemporary epic: Min Jin Lee has written a masterpiece by turns sweeping and intimate, one that reckons with ambition and moderation, lust and loyalty, personal dreams and familial duty.

In schools and churches, hotel rooms and nail salons, law firms and fried-fish shops; in cramped, dingy apartments and luxury, gated communities, the men, women, and children in American Hagwon struggle to find satisfaction and meaning in a world that seems to grow less forgiving with each passing year.

Once comfortably middle class in Korea, John and Helen Koh and their three children—Bo, DH, and Mido—find their lives upended, first by a shocking betrayal by John’s oldest friend, then by the 1997 Asian financial crisis. Desperately striving to regain their footing, they leave Seoul for Sydney and eventually settle in Southern California—where new vistas of opportunity open up for the children as their parents, strangers in a strange land, must adjust to a new life in which their experience and education mean little, and they set their sights on whatever it takes to provide for their children’s futures.

The Kohs, their friends, relatives, and even their foes move in and out of each other’s lives as they navigate new courses across the years, always nursing the almost all-consuming faith that education will lead the next generation to success and security. In American Hagwon, Min Jin Lee has crafted an unforgettable, panoramic novel where the smallest of gestures can have enormous repercussions, where the bonds of family and of memory twist and fray but rarely break, and where willful self-sacrifice—for the benefit of loved ones and even strangers—is a kind of prayer.

Release date: September 29, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 496

Sample

Gaepo-dong, Seoul, South Korea

March 1992

The rules of engagement have changed already.

Within a month of their arrival from Australia, Mrs. Helen Koh found her family a suitable apartment in a good school district in Seoul. The middle-class neighborhood of Gaepo was not as nice as the one where her sister, Sonya, lived, but it had to suffice. After paying key money for the two-year lease, a painful sum that consumed the bulk of the family’s savings, and replacing the most urgent things before the shipping container from Sydney could be delivered, Helen accepted that there just wasn’t room in the budget for any place better.

Their rental house in Campsie, a suburb of Sydney, had four bedrooms, a den, and a generous backyard for cookouts. Their Seoul apartment, on the third floor of a five-year-old building put up quickly by mediocre developers, had three small bedrooms, a decent-size living room, and two baths. The largest bedroom went to the two boys, Bo and DH; Helen and her husband, John, occupied the medium-size bedroom; and the tiny one near the foyer was for Mido, the child Helen worried about the most.

From the outset of their marriage, John had put his sensible wife in charge of the household finances. Helen’s thrift and good judgment allowed him to focus on his career. For almost two decades, on Monday mornings, Helen had given John a weekly allowance for his carfare, meals, and pocket money; then it was her job to make do with the remainder of his salary for their tithes, living expenses, and retirement savings, if any, and in that order. A former math major at Seoul National University, John preferred problems he could solve on paper, and family life had far too many unknown variables.

Raising three children was costly, and when they were still young, Helen began working as a retail sales associate to supplement John’s steady income, which was inadequate for their mounting needs. John’s work had taken the Koh family to Paramus, Seoul, and Sydney. In each city, Helen’s supervisors recognized her talent as a reliable salesperson.

For each of the three Koh children, Helen kept a spiral notebook, and on the back flap, she pasted a manila envelope where she tucked away cash for their school fees, clothing, and sundries. This year’s envelopes were lighter than usual because the children had needed many new things upon their return to Korea. In addition to school uniforms, Bo and DH required larger sneakers, thicker winter coats, and stacks of study guides. Mido, the youngest, had not grown as much as her brothers, so her wardrobe would serve another year; however, in Sydney, she had needed to see learning specialists, which had wiped out her portion of the savings.

Mido was thirteen years old and in the first year of the local middle school. She was short and slight for her age, and often mistaken for a much younger child. Like her father, Mido had small, round eyes that formed an endearing expression when she smiled. And like him, she had perfect vision and didn’t need to wear eyeglasses, which Bo had required since he was a toddler. Mido wore her dark hair parted in the middle in two thick braids, which suited her pale, unremarkable demeanor.

Although Mido could speak well enough, she seemed almost incapable of doing so at school, church, or anywhere else outside the home. With her family she spoke as needed, and around her father, Mido was especially at ease. On Saturday evenings, after Mido finished her homework and household chores, the two of them watched music variety programs on television, smiling and laughing in a wordless cocoon.

All the children were born in Paramus, New Jersey, when John worked at a Japanese trading company in New York City and reported to Taehun Shin, who had been one year his senior at university. Shin had been like a brother to John throughout school, military service in the elite KATUSA unit where their English-language skills only improved, and at both the Japanese and Korean trading companies, which had allowed the men’s families to live overseas as subsidized expatriates. The Koh family had lived in New Jersey for seven years, Seoul for three, then Sydney for almost six, prior to their return to Seoul one month before the start of this school term.

Throughout her childhood, Mido’s teachers had asked Helen to come in to discuss her daughter’s excessively quiet manner. At her preschool in Paramus, and in the first years of school in Seoul, Mido barely spoke with the other children and was left out of friendships. At her primary school in Sydney, the teachers had hinted at learning issues, despite her high marks. They’d encouraged her to talk more in class, advocate for herself, and work better in groups.

Helen saw herself as a modern, educated parent, and she wanted to help her youngest child. She took time off from work and visited a learning specialist, a speech therapist, and an occupational therapist. The doctors in Sydney pronounced Mido normal, more or less. A reputable pediatrician said there was nothing medically wrong with the girl’s hearing or vocal cords. The child psychologist believed that Mido’s shyness was cultural, and all the moving around might have confused her. Asian children, the school counselor had observed, were often less talkative.

Mido’s father, a high-functioning introvert who managed the natural resources department at a multinational trading company, dismissed such simplistic nonsense. Not all Koreans were quiet. His own family had been filled with loud people. At the slightest provocation or encouragement, his mother, father, and elder brother would shout and argue their well-articulated opinions. To be left alone, John had retreated into his studies, excelling at math and foreign languages. As an adult, he did not ask for much in life. He enjoyed listening to music and being in the presence of his wife and three children.

John wanted to comfort his dear Helen, who was clearly troubled that their daughter did not have friends. Throughout her own childhood, Helen, like her elder sister, was a natural leader—engaging, kind, and deliberate in her goals and methods, articulate in both Korean and English. In college, she had served as vice president of an English poetry society and secretary of a music appreciation group. Helen took her daughter’s difficulties personally.

John felt less anxious about his daughter’s prospects. Mido was a seventh grader who read at a college level. The other children did not appreciate her, he reasoned. When ready, she would speak up, make friends, and find the work she was meant to do. She would grow out of this social reticence. Helen, a devout woman, prayed he was right. Maybe Mido would be more outgoing if her self-assured brothers didn’t crowd her with their larger personalities, or if the Koh family hadn’t moved across the world every few years.

John Koh wanted things to be equal for his sons and daughter but recognized their innate personality differences. Above all, he wanted to protect his daughter’s peace of mind. All this poking around and extra attention couldn’t be good for her. If you looked hard enough, you could always find something wrong. The world was too noisy. It was fine for Mido to be her own way, to seek privacy and solitude.

As might be expected of a child who read a great deal and hardly talked, Mido received admirable grades; however, on her report cards, her teachers often commented, “Mido is a fine student and a good girl. What is concerning is her lack of social relationships.”

Helen was accustomed to her sons’ strong school performance and popularity. Bo was a standout student, the teachers’ perennial favorite, and DH was an exceptional soccer player. Helen was the sort who needed to fix things, and she wanted to know what she could do to bolster her daughter’s self-esteem. Mido didn’t have to be school president, the prettiest, or the top student; Helen simply wanted her child to be included.

Although Helen had not wanted to return to Seoul, preferring to raise the children abroad to enlarge their opportunities, there was some consolation: Mido’s shyness seemed almost commonplace in Korea. A child could be quieter here.

The middle school was six blocks from the main shopping street and less than a ten-minute walk from the Kohs’ apartment. The four-story cinder-block building with a slate roof, whitewashed and with a dark-blue trim, housed numerous classrooms, a spacious auditorium, two music rooms, and a new gymnasium. There was a well-maintained field for the three grades of boys and girls. Mido did not attend the coveted middle school in Gangnam, which sent the greatest number of students to the desirable specialized public high schools in the city, but her school was far from the worst.

In Mido’s homeroom class, there were forty-six students. Mr. Na, the homeroom teacher who also taught mathematics, assigned Mido to sit in the second row.

Seated directly behind her was an attractive child with dark, large eyes. A formidable student, Yun Kim was also known for being a brilliant sprinter and a fine keyboard player. Each year, her homeroom teacher selected her as the classroom president because her peers listened to her. In the morning, Yun’s mother French-braided her only child’s shoulder-length raven hair, and although all the girls wore matching uniforms, Yun stood out by wearing American sneakers.

As classroom president, Yun was expected to help Mido, the new student from Australia, assimilate. On the first day of school, it was Yun who told Mido where to put her lunch box, where and when to change into her sports uniform, and what clubs she could join, as well as where all the meeting rooms were located. Mido did as instructed, not bothering Yun with any unnecessary questions, and as usual, she kept to herself. Ever an attentive child, Mido was able to pick up from observation whatever she needed to know.

To make up for her silence around the other girls, Mido smiled often, her eyes curving along her round, pink cheeks. Most adults liked her sweet face, but her classmates would not have considered her as pretty as Yun, whose symmetrical features were often commented upon with great admiration. Mido’s lack of distinguishing physical charms did not bother her; if anything, she was relieved not to be noticed.

On the third day of school, shortly before lunch recess, Mr. Na called on Bora Kang to solve a math problem. On the bulletin board by the front door, the teachers posted weekly exam scores, and more often than not, Bora’s name was at the top of the lists.

Bora, a serious girl who wore a different-colored headband each day, marched to the board, solved the problem neatly, wiped the chalk dust from her right hand, and returned to her seat in the last row by the window. She tucked her navy pleated skirt beneath her bottom before sitting, then smoothed the front of her skirt to cover the tops of her thighs.

Mido checked Bora’s answer on the chalkboard against her worksheet. There was an error. Mido should not have multiplied the numerator. She rubbed the worn-down ear of her blue-and-white puppy eraser against the pencil markings and started again.

Mr. Na called out, “Koh Mido,” and she looked up from her paper and smiled at her teacher.

“Number three,” he said, pointing to the board.

Mido swallowed and approached the chalkboard gingerly, bringing her worksheet with her. She copied her answer on the board with great care.

“Incorrect,” he said, shaking his head in disappointment. Out of consideration for her recent arrival in the country, he had assigned her a relatively simple problem.

Mido bit the inside of her lip, then checked her solution against the way Bora had solved the previous question. She had made the same computation error as before by multiplying the numerator. Using quick strokes of the chalkboard eraser, Mido wiped off her wrong answer, smudging the edge of her blue sweater sleeve, to begin again.

“Who told you that you could do that?”

Startled by Mr. Na’s stern tone, Mido froze.

“How can you learn if you do not recognize, admit, and explain your mistake? It does no one any good if you do not point out your error. You erased the error, so now no one can learn from what you did wrong. Erasing it is like covering a weakness. It’s lying. It’s cowardice and selfish.”

Mr. Na had been a college basketball player and became a sports radio announcer in Daegu after graduation. When he couldn’t support his family by working at a local radio station doing a job he adored, he had labored hard to become a middle school mathematics teacher for his second career, eventually landing in the capital city with his wife and two children. Female teachers and administrators admired the handsome former athlete, and the male teachers looked up to him for his discipline and dunking skills.

“Koh Mido,” Mr. Na said in his rich tenor voice. “Did you hear my question? How can you learn if you do not admit and then explain your error?”

Perplexed, Mido glanced at him, then lowered her gaze just as quickly, having no idea what he wanted her to do now. Was she supposed to write back in her mistake? Tears filled her eyes.

Crying never moved Mr. Na. It only made things worse. If girls were to succeed in the world, he believed, they had to be more stoic. As a father, he was as tough on his daughter as he was on his son. Life was full of terrible disappointment and cruelty, and he didn’t see the pedagogical purpose of coddling these middle-class girls, who had no idea how easy they had it compared to his generation and the ones before it.

The teacher crossed his arms and frowned. He didn’t like her face—the features were too soft and little, and her head was not yet in proportion to her small body. Mr. Na preferred girls to be bright like a new coin, visually engaging as the loveliest of flowers and with the vitality of youth in their movements. No doubt this girl was an unmotivated, overindulged child from a rich family that had lived overseas. He ascribed her puny size to her being a picky eater.

“Go stand by my desk.”

Mido approached the teacher’s large wooden desk near the windowed door. Across the hall, uniformed boys and girls lined up in size order against the tile-bordered wall. She wished she could bolt through the classroom door and hide in a bathroom stall until her heart stopped pounding so fiercely.

“Hold out your hands,” Mr. Na said.

Incomprehension clouded her shining eyes.

“Like this.” Mr. Na held out his large, strong ballplayer’s hands, pale palms facing upward.

Mido crinkled her brow and imitated him. Her palms were three colors, more white and pink in the center and bluish around the thumbs and fingers. She had never given much thought to her body, least of all her own tiny hands.

From his pencil cup, Mr. Na withdrew his brass ruler, one of the classroom supplies he’d bought with his first paycheck as a teacher.

He raised his right hand and struck her open palms with the heavy ruler.

“One,” he said quietly.

Mido grimaced, stunned by the sharp pain.

The class pitied Mido. She’d had no warning. No one had told her that this was something that happened. The only way to avoid this shame was by getting the answer right, or if the teacher had an understanding with your mother. Things could be different if your father was an important person.

As a class leader, Yun felt especially guilty for not having mentioned Mr. Na’s golden ruler, which left red welts across a child’s soft palms.

Tears flowed down Mido’s cheeks, and she regulated her breath the way Dr. Ryan had taught her to whenever she was afraid. Everyone was watching her get punished, but she had to keep breathing. The gentle, gray-haired doctor from Sydney had told her that when she felt fear or worry, Mido had to keep inhaling and exhaling. It will be fine, he’d said. Breathe.

“Two,” Mr. Na said calmly, then raised the metric ruler with a flourish and swung down.

“Three.”

The class heard the final smack of the metal hitting skin, and the girl stood in her place without a murmur. The children knew this was the last time.

Three strikes for the third problem.

Mido wiped her cheeks with the back of her left hand. Only after Mr. Na tilted his chin toward her desk did she bow to the teacher and return to her seat.

“Students, lunchtime,” Mr. Na said, his voice elegant and reasonable. He left the room.

Yun retrieved her lunch box and Mido’s from the shelves next to where the textbooks were stored. She placed them both on her desk. The other students opened their sacks and fabric-tied parcels, transforming their homeroom into a noisy dining hall.

“Follow me,” Yun said.

The girls walked down the long hallway, and Yun pulled Mido into the washroom.

“I hate him,” Yun whispered. “A real son of a bitch,” she said, savoring the forbidden salt of the insult, and smiled at Mido, revealing her matching dimples.

Mido blinked back tears. She had gotten the problem wrong, so she was at fault. But no one had ever hit her before. Not at home or school.

Yun opened the water faucet.

“You’ll feel better after you wash your face. Go ahead,” Yun said, and Mido obeyed. From her pocket, Yun retrieved a clean white handkerchief.

“Dry your face. You can’t pay attention to that fool.”

Mido had never heard any girl talk like this. Even her brothers didn’t use these words. At her school in Sydney, you could be sent to the principal’s office for name-calling. In their homeroom, Yun was an ideal and well-spoken student. In the washroom, she was someone else. Even her pretty face seemed less placid, her teeth clenched, her jaw firm, and in her anger, the cords of her thin neck had become more visible.

Yun examined Mido’s hands. There were pink stripes across the meat of her palms.

“Most of the teachers here are pretty nice and never hit us, but I’d heard about Mr. Na from the older students. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” Yun let out a short laugh. “My mother says it’s my fault when the teacher hits me. My father says it’s good for me to get the shit kicked out of me by the teacher because then I’ll study harder.”

Mido couldn’t imagine her parents thinking hitting was necessary.

Yun stared hard at Mido’s face, trying to read any meaning behind her dark eyes. Since school started, the new girl had barely spoken beyond faint murmurs of assent for roll call. Somehow Mido’s silence had not troubled Yun. In a way, she felt more drawn to the new student. Mido made Yun feel useful, which she liked.

“But I disagree with them,” Yun added. “I don’t study harder because the teachers could hit me. I don’t usually get hit, but I don’t want to watch anyone else get in trouble, either. I just hate the teachers who do this. There must be other ways to make your point.” She shrugged. “Anyway, save yourself some trouble at home, and don’t tell your parents what happened today.”

Yun glanced in the metal mirror, then looked away as quickly as if the pretty girl in the reflection were a surprise to her.

“Just imagine if you had messed up problem ten.” Yun raised both her hands, splaying all ten fingers. “Ten smacks.” She giggled.

“Mr. Na doesn’t know anything. He won’t teach you, but he expects you to get the right answers. If you get something wrong, he’ll hit you again and again. I heard that when he gets really fired up, he can use the broomstick on your legs. The ruler’s not so bad, I guess. Two years ago, I heard he hit a boy so hard that he bled on the back of his calves. Even his mom came in to complain. Not that it did any good.”

With an imaginary broom handle, Yun’s wiry arms made dramatic swinging motions below Mido’s knees. She shivered, realizing then that the joke was more scary than funny, and she looked down at her clean white leather sneakers.

Yun turned serious. “Mido, are you bad at math? I don’t want you to feel worse, but that problem wasn’t the toughest one of the group today.”

Mido shook her head no. In Sydney, she’d received perfect grades in mathematics. But here the math was far more advanced, forcing her to read and reread the textbook every night. Homework took more time. Her brothers, too, had complained about it. Bedtime kept getting pushed back because of the difficulty of the school assignments.

“Maybe you have to change your hagwon,” Yun said.

Mido looked at her blankly.

Yun leaned against the long communal sink.

“When’s your birthday?” She turned to Mido. “Mine’s October ninth. I’m short, and everyone thinks I’m the youngest, but I’m not. You’re not tall, either. Are you older than me?”

Mido shrugged.

“When? When is your birthday?” Suddenly Yun felt entitled to an answer.

At last, Mido replied, “October first.”

Yun tapped Mido’s shoulder with her bony fist.

“Yaah! You do talk. I knew you did.”

Mido looked confused, unable to comprehend why everyone cared so much about speaking all the time.

“Eight days’ difference is nothing. We’re almost twins. We could have been in the hospital at the same time.” Yun grasped Mido’s left hand.

“Let’s go eat. My mother put sausages and dumplings in my lunch box today, and I have a box of Pepero. I’ll give you some. You know what? You should go to Eagle Academy with me. For English, I have Sean Teacher. I study math with Henry Teacher. They’re from America. Henry Teacher went to MIT. That’s a better school than Harvard for math and science. I’ll get my mother to call your mother. My parents want me to go to college in America, so I go to this special hagwon run by Americans. I mean, they’re Korean but not really. They’re gyopo.” Yun paused. “I guess like you. Anyway.”

Mido followed Yun at a respectful distance, taking care not to step on the girl’s shadow. The classroom president walked with purpose down the wide, yellow-linoleum-covered hallway flanked by rows of classrooms. At their desk, as they ate their lunches, Yun chatted to the quiet girl, who nodded and smiled. Her new friend had everything figured out for them, and Mido felt grateful to be in her care.

No one had expected Mido’s teacher to make a home visit.

The living room was furnished with five gray metal folding chairs and two laminate conference tables, one serving as the children’s desk and the other as the dining table. The rental apartment still lacked rugs, paintings, and books. It took no time at all for Helen to sweep the bare floors each morning. For the time being, the children slept in sleeping bags, and Helen and John on bedding from Helen’s older sister, Sonya. Except for clothing and toiletries, Sonya had loaned them everything, as she had done years before. There was no reason to buy expensive mattresses or pots and pans when their own household things would arrive in two months. It was like camping, Helen told her family, and the children had not complained.

Helen was filling out the application papers for a part-time sales position at the Lotte duty-free store. It was a job that would enable her to get home in time to prepare dinner and help the children with their homework. Helen didn’t care much for luxury handbags or expensive face creams; however, having sold enough products in so many places to all different kinds of customers, she had learned to appreciate better-made goods, and understood the value of an expensive and rare gift. Here in Seoul, as a Korean citizen with strong English-language skills, she could work at the nicest places. If she could get thirty or forty hours a week with commissions, she would be able to send the children to a good hagwon and save.

The buzzer sounded, and when Helen answered the intercom, to her surprise, it was Mr. Na. Helen put away her application forms in a blue pocket folder.

The teacher bowed as he entered the apartment and removed his black leather shoes, resoled again, not too long ago. Mr. Na had brush-polished and buffed his penny loafers to a high sheen. He prided himself on his neat appearance.

He was a few years younger than Helen and several inches taller than John. No visible gray hairs. Mr. Na’s clear complexion was tanned from morning runs. He was trim, with white teeth that evidenced his distaste for cigarettes and coffee. He wore a gold wedding ring and an affordable Japanese watch, a gray woolen sweater vest over a crisp dress shirt and necktie, and dark slacks.

There was no sofa, so Mr. Na sat down on one of the folding chairs at the children’s table and placed his briefcase on the empty seat between him and Helen. He was disappointed by the drab building and the room without proper furnishings. He’d hoped that Mido’s family had more means. No servant had opened the door or offered tea. A commemorative mug from a large downtown church, half full of cold milky coffee, rested by a blue folder. The mother was in her house clothes, a white cotton T-shirt and a pair of boys’ navy jogging pants. She sat down across the table from him.

Mr. Na cleared his throat. “Thank you for seeing me today. I wanted to stop by and say hello. I was told that you had just arrived from Australia. I understand that your daughter was never educated here.”

“Well, Mido went to kindergarten and first grade in Seoul, but my husband’s work took us overseas again. I’ve tried to keep up the children’s Korean through books and cassette tapes. Mido is the youngest. She has a brother at your school and the oldest goes to the high school across town.”

The teacher knew the school. His cousin had been turned down for a job there.

“In Sydney, the children went to a Korean-language school at the church on Saturdays, but I’m not sure how much they learned. I was working.” Her voice trailed off. Helen didn’t know what he thought of mothers like her. Nervous, she was talking too much.

Having lived abroad, she didn’t always know what to say when she returned home. Things were constantly changing, especially language and schooling, and often, even strangers had an opinion about her parenting. Natives would correct her when she made a mistake and smile like they’d won something, as if to say, You might have lived somewhere else but you’re not so special, and Helen didn’t know how to make the Koreans who had stayed put feel better. Some of them felt left behind and disadvantaged by those who had lived elsewhere, when in reality, Helen felt lost herself.

“This is a nice apartment,” he said. “How many bedrooms do you have?”

“Three. It isn’t very big,” she replied. “We are still waiting for our furniture.” The apartment felt even shabbier in his presence. “May I get you something to drink? We have coffee.”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

Helen tried to remember if there was any tea in the nearly empty pantry.

“I live about two hours from here,” he volunteered. “I take the train almost four hours a day round-trip for my job. It must be wonderful to live so close to the school.”

Helen looked down, embarrassed by what she’d said. He must have thought she was boasting. A teacher had never visited her home before.

“Let me get you some tea. I have some delicious biscuits from Australia.” Helen went to the kitchen and found cold barley tea in the refrigerator.

The open kitchen faced out to the living room, and in his sight, Helen put together a tray: two glasses of barley tea and sweets she’d been saving for her husband. She laid out the offerings in front of the teacher.

“Is Mido doing okay?” she asked, thinking it was better to be direct in these situations.

His mouth twisted a bit to the left like he was thinking.

“Her math skills are behind the other children’s. I can help her with extra lessons in the morning or after school.”

“How very kind of you. Thank you so much.”

“I do this for my students, although it is not easy for me. My commute is rather long. I eat most of my meals in the classroom, and I get home late. I almost never see my own children during the week. Only on Sundays.”

Helen touched her forehead, and her right hand hid the worry in her eyes for a moment.

“A teacher’s work is so difficult. How old are your children?” she asked.

“I have two. One is studying for her high school entrance exams now. She’s a hard worker. Like your daughter, she is quiet. The younger one, the boy, is a year behind her. He, too, studies a great deal. It’s his dream to go to America and attend a great university there.”

“That would be wonderful,” she said, having heard some version of this from nearly everyone she knew. The top schools were too competitive in Korea, with never enough spots.

“The cost would be impossible, however. I have to take care of my family and make sure they have a bright future, but it’s tough. My parents worked on a farm. I’m a luckless country boy, but I studied and became a middle school teacher. I am honored to be a member of a noble profession, but it’s not possible to take care of your family on a teacher’s salary alone. My children have to eat, go to hagwon, and I’m the eldest son. There are also my aging parents to consider.”

He coughed to clear his throat and glanced at the mother’s troubled expression.

“Do you think Mido will need a great deal of extra instruction? I don’t want to make work for you. I mean, my husband can help her, perhaps. He’s not bad at math.”

The teacher frowned, too polite to contradict her. If the child’s father knew math well, then why did his daughter fall short on such b