Too Easy Childcare
Childcare was so easy that Sora pulled something out. She rummaged around and took a CD from her pocket. These days, people used USB drives or external hard drives, but back then, they were incredibly expensive. All you could do was transfer data on CDs like this. CDs didn't cost much per disc, after all.
Sora, who had lived in the 2020s, was different. Rather than finding the CD inconvenient, she got lost in nostalgia. It had been decades since she'd used one like this. In the 2020s, computers didn't even have CD drives anymore. Why bother with a CD-ROM when you had USB ports? It was simpler and more convenient—no need to waste money on something unnecessary. Sure, some third-world or developing countries still used CDs into the 2020s, but in Korea, they were on the verge of extinction.
But this era was different. Smartphones had come out, but people weren't using them much yet. They hadn't caught on with the masses. In that sense, using CDs was a great, cheap way to transfer data.
"This is a movie script I wrote. Take a look."
"You wrote this?"
"Yes, I did. The script's on the CD."
Three movie scripts? Writing a single one took half a year, but this kid Sora had churned out three in such a short time.
"Could I just give this to Grandpa?"
"Sometimes when you're stuck on an idea, looking at other people's work helps, right?"
"That's true..."
"And if you like it, feel free to use it."
Park Sung-min often recharged his inspiration by watching movies or reading books when his scriptwriting hit a wall. Human imagination wasn't infinite. As you aged or lived life, it felt more like a depleting resource. That's why some writers stopped producing or left the field after one work—everyone had a limited amount of imagination. Park Sung-min was relatively rich in it for someone in the industry. He was over 50 and still putting out new works.
Above all, he was dying to know what movie scripts this kid Sora had written. What kind of fun could a first-grader's script offer? It was questionable if it even had any polish.
Some thought writing novels and screenplays were the same kind of writing. But they were completely different—like saying Go and Gomoku are the same game.
"Thank you..."
Park Sung-min took the CD and parted ways with Sora. As soon as he got home, he didn't even wash up—he booted up his computer right away. When he inserted the CD and opened the files, he couldn't help but be shocked. There really were three scripts written by Sora.
Park Sung-min's eyes locked onto the monitor. His heart pounded at the thought of reading a first-grader's movie script. It was probably a world first. The very idea of an elementary first-grader penning a screenplay was unbelievable. And even more impressive, she already had a main gig. Even Park Sung-min, who'd written dozens of scripts and novels, would throw up his hands if asked to do both at once. His creative energy just wasn't up to it. It would scatter his focus and ruin both works.
Park Sung-min decided to read them slowly.
Yoo Da-som was Sora's mother. At 20, still young, she had married her husband Lee Tae-yoon. They were the same age. It was a shotgun wedding from the start—they'd gotten pregnant before the ceremony.
Having a cute baby girl named Sora sent Yoo Da-som into blissful daydreams. Boy or girl didn't matter; just having a child brought immense joy.
But misfortune struck suddenly. Sora had a rare disease.
Rare diseases could be fatal or manageable with care. Sora's was the latter. A simple injection of the right medicine would cure her completely.
Hearing that, Da-som hugged her husband and sighed in relief. A curable disease!
But when she learned the drug's price—tens of billions of won—she was horrified. How could any medicine cost that much? Still, she couldn't give up.
Da-som borrowed from her parents and in-laws. Thankfully, both sets of grandparents willingly helped, even stretching themselves thin. She found ways to get subsidies, halving the cost. But it still wasn't enough. Desperate, she and Tae-yoon borrowed from friends, swallowing their pride, and even took out private loans.
The daughter they saved was adorably beautiful. She spent a lot of time expressionless, but even that was cute. Da-som never regretted saving her.
But as time passed, Da-som sensed something unusual about her child. Sora was special.
"She doesn't cry much, Doctor. Is something wrong?"
Da-som took Sora to the pediatrician because she cried so little. Sora's cries were on a strict schedule: when hungry, or needing to poop or pee. And even then, not loudly—just enough to call for Mom. Once handled, she stopped instantly. She never fussed or whimpered in daily life.
Da-som worried something was off. Parents fret if their kid cries too little, too.
But the doctor saw no issue.
"Sora's perfectly normal. She just doesn't express emotions much."
"Oh, I see..."
If the expert said so, Da-som trusted it.
Childcare was a breeze for her. Her mom and mother-in-law said parenting was tough and offered help, but she refused. It just wasn't hard. This was easy mode.
Nighttime? She woke every three hours, but fed and changed, she'd sleep right back. Burps in ten minutes, no fussing. Lay her down, eyes closed instantly. Veteran newbie parents struggling to soothe all night would gawk.
With childcare this easy, Da-som wondered. But she couldn't ask friends—they were still in college, unmarried. Her marriage had been ridiculously early. Her mom warned her to brace herself, but now Da-som felt silly for stressing. She couldn't fathom parenting stress. Raising such a cute, lovable baby was stressful? Unbelievable.
Raising Sora, with her past-life memories, was effortless.
"Sora, Daddy's home~"
"Kyaa~"
Whether faking it or not, Sora responded well. No stranger anxiety either—blank face to strangers or new places. Time made parenting even easier. Normal parents say it gets better with experience; Sora's was no different, but hers plummeted past easy to very easy.
Sora took her first steps on two feet.
"Kyaaaa! Honey, Sora's walking for the first time!"
"Sora!!!"
Tae-yoon and Da-som clapped, overjoyed. Once walking, Sora roamed freely, like venting pent-up frustration from not using her legs before. Parenting got even easier.
"Ah-ae-ae-ng!"
When needing the bathroom, Sora stood at the door calling Da-som. Baby talk, sure, but no more diapers. No girly cuteness, but she was adorable anyway. Sora didn't need aegyo; she was cute and charming by nature!
"Mommy."
"Oh my... Oh!!!"
And her speech developed incredibly fast.