Jin had friends now, and daycare had become a place she mostly enjoyed. But settling into a routine isn't the same as settling into a language.
When my coursework picked up and I needed more hours in the day, we extended her time at the centre — 9 to 4 instead of four hours. She didn't say much about it, but we could tell. The lightness was gone — nervous, missing, and everything.
At home, when it came to bedtime reading, whenever I picked up an English book she'd say, "Mum, read it in Korean." Or she'd simply walk past the shelf and come back with a Korean picture book. English for daycare, Korean for real life — the little girl's rule was very clear.
She loved Sundays more than any other day. We went to a Korean church, so basically it was the only place in this new country that sounded like home.
Somewhere along the way, she came up with a brilliant idea. She'd hear the adults around her — at church, at gatherings — switching effortlessly between Korean and English, and she wanted in. She didn't have the English to do it, so she just made some up.
She'd string together sounds that felt like English — the rhythm, the intonation, the rise and fall — without any actual words. It was convincing enough to make you do a double-take. We called it Jinnish 😂 It was funny and adorable, and she seemed pleased with herself whenever she did it. But underneath the performance, we sensed she might be trying to belong to something she couldn't yet reach.
By October, I'd finished my first year of study. And we made a quiet decision: we pulled her out of daycare. She was happy there, she had friends, she was learning—but once school started, her days would run from nine to three alongside her sisters. These last few months before school were the only stretch of time that could belong entirely to her.
We wanted to fill it well.
