12 May 2020
Subject: Gaby Got Into Med School
Today is Gaby's 18th birthday. And like always, I'm writing this email to you—whether you're still alive or not, whether you'll read it or not.
He just got the news—he's been accepted into the Faculty of Medicine in Seoul. In the middle of a world thrown into chaos by the coronavirus, our son—mine and Lim Woo's—is taking his first step toward becoming a doctor.
Funny, isn't it? I used to be so traumatized by hospitals. But he wants to learn. He wants to understand people's wounds. He wants to help.
He said, "Mom, maybe I can help women who've been through what you have." I couldn't say anything. I just hugged him, and cried silently.
Because the world is sick now too. And still, he chooses to study healing. Even if his classes are online for now, even if he might not even get to set foot on campus.
I remember—you once wanted to specialize in surgery. Now Gaby says he's interested in OB-GYN. Ironic, isn't it?
But he's happy. He says he wants to be a doctor who understands the fears of his patients. I'm proud. So, so proud.
You know, even though he's not your son, part of the courage I had raising him came from you. From memories of us.
Happy birthday, Gaby.
And happy birthday to you too, Urip.
---
12 May 2021
Subject: Gaby's First Year in Med School
Hey,
Today Gaby turns 19. His first year in med school hasn't been easy. All classes are still online. He studies from his apartment, barely meeting professors or classmates in person.
But he's holding on. He said, "Mom, I have to keep going. Patients can't wait for the pandemic to end." I don't know where he gets that strength. Maybe because he never saw his mother give up either.
Lim Woo helps a lot. He's working from home, so he can keep Gaby company while he studies. I myself am still home most days. Sometimes, when I zone out, I reread the old emails between us. The ones I used to send from your account to your account.
You still don't reply. But I still write.
---
13 November 2021
Subject: Happy 47th
Happy birthday, Urip.
I imagine you must be a surgeon by now, maybe a professor. Or maybe you've got kids of your own. But in my mind, you're still the Urip who once fought over a pew with me at morning Mass.
Gaby looks more and more like you. But his eyes—those are Lim Woo's.
I don't write letters to God anymore. But I still write to you.
---
12 May 2022
Subject: Gaby Turns Twenty
Gaby turns 20 today. On this very day twenty years ago, he was born—my son whom I thought I'd never have. The child doctors said couldn't exist.
He's started basic clinical skills training. Still mostly online, but sometimes he's allowed on campus. The pandemic's getting better. I got vaccinated last year. Gaby too.
He said he's taking an extra subject in trauma healing. Maybe because he knows the wounds in his mother's heart never really healed.
Every year I write you this email and send you photos. You never reply. But you should know: Gaby is alive and well. He's happy. And he knows he is loved.
---
13 November 2022
Subject: I Don't Know If You're Alive or Dead
But even if you are dead, you must know this: my son is in med school.
He's a good kid. Sometimes too serious. But when he was little, he loved to draw. I still keep his first drawing: three people. There's me, Lim Woo, and one faceless man.
I think that was you.
---
12 May 2023
Subject: Gaby's Hospital Internship
Gaby started his clinical internship this year. He was so nervous the first time he stepped into the ER. But he told me, "Mom, I can only help a little. But I don't want to be a doctor who's afraid of blood."
I laughed. Were you afraid of blood, Urip?
He told me about a young woman—victim of domestic abuse. I know Gaby thinks a lot about his mother's past. But he's never asked directly. He just said, "If I become an OB-GYN, I want to listen to patients like you."
I couldn't say a word.
But I'm proud.
---
13 November 2023
Subject: Happy Birthday Again
I'm writing this late at night. Lim Woo's already asleep. Gaby's still up, buried in thick textbooks—just like you used to be.
I remember when we talked about getting married at the Cathedral. The Cathedral is open again now, but I haven't been back.
But every 13th of November, I go into my study, open your old Yahoo inbox, and reread every email you never read. I reply to my own messages.
I feel like a crazy person.
But maybe I am.
---
Urip stared at his phone screen, paralyzed. His fingers trembled as he scrolled through Siska's emails—dating back to 1998, sent every 12 May and 13 November, without fail. Each one written with grief, anger, longing, and wounds that never healed.
His eyes burned. His chest tightened.
"I'm sorry, Siska…" he whispered silently. "If only I hadn't joined that protest… if only I'd run straight to Kelapa Gading when I got your message… maybe I could've saved you. Maybe I could've helped your mom… your dad…"
He saw her in his mind again—young Siska, shyly smiling as they fought over a seat at the Cathedral, boldly defending her faith in theology class, and finally… crying alone at the bus stop, waiting for a boy who never came.
Tears streamed down his face. He didn't know what to do. Siska was now his "mother." Gabriel—another man's son—called her "Mama." And all those wounds stayed buried, tight, in the lines of emails he never replied to.
Silence wrapped around him. Only Urip's heavy breaths filled the room. His phone screen was still lit, displaying Siska's last message.
The subject line read: "Whether he's our son or not, I'll keep sending you updates."
Urip's head felt heavy, as if a boulder had crushed him from the inside. Not just from the contents of the email—but from something inside himself, inside Gaby's body, beginning to stir.
A strong, foreign, but commanding instinct. Not a voice from the heart. Not logic. But something automatic, as if this body's internal system whispered: "If you're stressed, don't freeze. Work. Move. Focus on the patient."
Urip's heart pounded—not from panic, but because Gaby's body was beginning to activate its old rhythms.
This body had been trained for years to stay composed under pressure, to stay logical when emotions threatened to take over. That was how Gabriel Lim had survived. And now, all of that lived inside Urip.
He stood. Washed his face. Grabbed the lab coat from the hook.
As if he had forgotten he was just mourning the past. As if this body would rather save others than save itself.
His footsteps were steady as he walked to the door. But before stepping out, he glanced back at the laptop still displaying that old Yahoo inbox. A quiet whisper crossed his mind:
"Forgive me, Siska. But let me do one thing right… even if it's a little too late."