Things More Important Than Money (7)

An orphanage.

Orphanage.

A place that takes in and raises children who have no parents or guardians. It was once called an orphanage, but in the interest of a kinder image, everyone calls it a children's home now.

And it isn't only children whose parents have died who end up in such a place. Economic hardship, abuse or neglect, a parent walking out — in these special circumstances, a child can qualify for placement as well.

I was the latter.

Explaining it is complicated, but if I must explain it anyway: a couple had a child and divorced not long after. In the process, custody went to the mother, and the two, their ties severed, remarried and each went their own way.

Then the mother, who held custody, divorced yet again — and in the process, she and the new husband gave up custody altogether.

All of this happened within four years of my birth, so it was only natural that I, a newborn at the time, remembered none of it.

So how did I come to know all this?

Because I heard it directly from my biological parents.

It happened when I was twenty-four.

When a person becomes famous and wealthy, the parasites naturally come crawling.

The parasites go by names like relative, sibling, friend, or acquaintance.

The parasite that crawled to me was my biological mother.

Summer of my twenty-fourth year. In my previous life, I had fully settled in with my Saudi club, been called up to the national team, and dragged South Korea to the round of sixteen at the World Cup.

I scored three goals at that World Cup, and my performance spread across all of South Korea. There wasn't a soul in the country who didn't know my name.

Whether it was fortune or misfortune, that name reached my biological mother's ears as well.

She claimed to be the biological mother of Kang Doin and demanded to meet me. The legal documents she produced as proof were, as it turned out, genuine.

So, thinking it was only right to see the face of the woman who gave birth to me at least once, I agreed. And so, right after the World Cup ended, the meeting took place.

My biological mother was quite the entertaining woman.

She'd say she wanted us to live together from now on so she could finally play the role of a mother — and when I refused, she'd demand compensation for all the years she'd "raised" me.

I can't deny that her shamelessness was, frankly, an attitude worth emulating when negotiating salaries with a club.

From what I gathered, she had been living in fairly dire financial straits. Two divorces will do that, I suppose — natural, if anything is.

In any case, after my meeting with her ended, a thought occurred to me.

Then where, exactly, was my biological father?

Satisfying this sudden curiosity didn't take long. Before the season began, I was reunited with my biological father as well.

He had been running a Taekwondo dojo in Spain for over a decade. He had remarried, and had a child of his own.

And unlike my biological mother, he was not an entertaining man.

A man in his late forties wept as he begged my forgiveness. With his emotions laid utterly bare, he purged every last one of his sins.

He apologized for his wrongs, pleaded that he had wanted to meet me far sooner but could never face the son who was already doing well on his own.

He played the part of a reasonable man, handed me his contact information, and told me to reach out anytime I ever needed anything.

And for some reason, I felt a flicker of anger.

You could have come looking for me before I became an adult. If you'd truly wanted to find me, you wouldn't have remarried or had another child. And now here you are, cosplaying as a decent human being — the sight of you is so repulsive I can barely keep from gagging—.

…The accusations climbed all the way up my throat, but I swallowed them. What would be the point of getting angry here?

Instead, I told him I needed nothing, and that he should focus on taking care of himself. And I drew one more line: my name wasn't Min-seok, so he could call me Doin.

And that was the end of it.

I never met my biological parents again.

Naturally, I never contacted them either. Even when, in my mid-thirties, I heard that my mother had died alone and my father had succumbed to cancer, I did not attend either funeral.

So… why am I telling you all this?

Simple.

It contains a crucial hint for my contract.

Namely: my biological father lives and works in Spain.

FIFA — the Fédération Internationale de Football Association — created a regulation banning the recruitment of youth players under eighteen, citing social maladjustment and the abandonment of young players moved abroad.

But there is an exception.

When the player's parents have relocated to that country for reasons unrelated to football.

That is why, after returning to my fifteen-year-old self, I dialed the number that lingered faintly in one corner of my memory.

"Hello. Is this Mr. Kang Yoo-seok's number, by any chance?"

-Ah, yes… it is. May I ask who's calling?

"This is Kang Doin — your son. Ah, should I say Kang Min-seok instead?"

That was one month ago from today.

More precisely, it happened the moment I decided to study abroad in Spain.

As I explained before, it isn't only children whose parents have died who can enter a children's home. Provided the conditions are met, a child can be placed there even with both parents alive and well.

And in the latter case, if the child and the parents so wish, the child can ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠return to their original family.

In my case, since my biological parents had divorced, I could return to the household of either one — provided, of course, that my biological father or mother agreed. So I explained my situation to my biological father over the phone in detail.

I want to sign with a Spanish football club, and to that end, I wish to return to your household, currently resident in Spain.

I added that what I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wanted was, purely and simply, a legal place in his family — that he need not provide me with financial support or a place to live.

I did consider playing the pitiful long-lost son and appealing to his emotions, but appealing to the feelings of a man who had already remarried and built a new family seemed likely to backfire.

Fortunately, my prediction wasn't wrong.

-…I'd like to talk to you face to face. Could you tell me where the children's home is?

I gave him the location, and a week later he flew in from Spain to see me in person.

The Kang Yoo-seok I met again looked about ten years younger than the man in my memory.

The moment he saw me, he burst into tears and apologized all over again. Considering he'd done exactly the same in my previous life, the man was simply a crybaby at heart.

Well. Setting aside the apology routine I'd already seen once before.

To give you the outcome first: he accepted my proposal. He said he had already gotten his new family's blessing, and that he would speak to the children's home right away and begin the procedures.

For me, it worked out beautifully. If he had refused, things would have gotten quite tedious.

Under domestic law, adoption procedures become significantly more complicated for children over thirteen, and international adoption is more complicated still — something to do with the Hague Convention on Intercountry Adoption or other.

Apparently burning through all those procedures takes years, so rather than that, Real Madrid's suggestion — extend my student visa, turn eighteen, and sign on the spot — would have been the more rational path.

In that sense, my biological father's decisiveness helped me for the very first time. A lead-off single for the season.

"Anyway, that's how it all went down."

And now, having finished recounting the events of the past month, I took a calm sip of water. Naturally, I left out the regression and everything from my previous life with my biological parents.

Even so, Tony sat across from me with his mouth hanging open, evidently overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information. His eyes had gone completely out of focus.

"You okay? That was a long story."

"No, I'm fine. It's just… ugh, damn. I don't even know how to put it…"

"Well, it's not exactly a cheerful family history. Sorry if it made things awkward."

He waved his hands, insisting ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it was nothing of the sort.

"That's not it. It's just… I don't know what words of comfort I'm supposed to offer you."

"Comfort? Why?"

"Because from everything you just said, you don't exactly seem thrilled about living with your father."

Well… he wasn't wrong.

The man already had a new family, after all. Forcing my way into a household that had already found its happiness was not something the old me would ever have done.

But the me of now couldn't afford to be picky about the temperature of the bathwater.

"Putting it that way, you're pretty remarkable too, you know."

"Me?"

"You forgave the father who abandoned you and reached out your hand first. That couldn't have been an easy decision. Honestly, I think it's very adult of you. More of an adult than some guy my age, at least."

Even as he tossed out the compliment, he studied me with worry in his eyes. From where I stood, it was a rather unpleasant look.

"So… honestly, I am worried about you. Calling it meddling after knowing you for barely a month might be fair, but… um."

"…"

"You're really okay with this… right?"

Am I okay? His question was surprisingly hard to answer.

Was he asking whether it was okay to reunite with my father? Whether I'd be all right living with a new family? Whether it was fine to leave my mother in the past forever?

I had no way of knowing which part, exactly, was supposed to be okay or not — but it didn't matter either way.

I broke into a wide grin.

"I'm fine."

Because pride doesn't pay.

Because there is nothing in this world more important to me than money.

Because that's how I've survived all this time.

"I'm truly, completely fine."

Time flew by.

And with it, many things changed.

The autumn that blew in with a biting chill and falling maple leaves.

Then the winter of falling snow.

Then, little by little, it melted into spring, as grass and flowers began to push their way into view.

Mallorca, Valencia, and Real Madrid finalized the prospects they would take from the program. Three players per club — nine in all, including me.

I decided not to attend high school — a Korean high school, that is. After all, my contract with a Spanish club was all but certain.

Unlike the other players, who would return to Korea in a year, my situation allowed for that decision.

Though it felt odd to call it a substitute, I did agree to attend a Spanish high school. Apparently, in Spain, even professional clubs take their youth players' academic performance seriously.

Since I could always drop out the moment I got called up to the senior squad, I consented.

And so, on a certain day in January, when the snow came down in blankets.

I turned sixteen. Three days later, my birthday gift arrived from the Spanish Ministry of Foreign Affairs: a residence visa.

After months of judicial proceedings, both nations had granted me permission to return to my biological father's household.

From that moment on, I became a person who could sign with a Spanish club without violating a single FIFA regulation.

A week after that.

I revised a few of the contract's option clauses, passed a medical examination at a hospital in Seoul, formally signed the contract, and prepared to leave for Spain.

And then March arrived. Two Korean students, myself included, boarded the plane.

Departing from Incheon International Airport, it was a long-haul flight of more than fifteen grueling hours — even for me, boredom was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠inevitable.

For someone like me, the landing announcement drifting down from the ceiling speakers and the glowing no-smoking sign were, quite naturally, a welcome sight.

I leaned my head against the window and glanced down at the scenery below.

"Well, would you look at that. What a long way I've come…"

After crossing a vast stretch of green land, the dense cluster of city buildings stretching out in ranks was strikingly impressive.

Madrid.

Madrid.

The capital of Spain — the beating heart of its politics, culture, and art.

The city where I would now make my home.