Yong-ah,
My beloved Yong,
It was at the end of March when we hiked Griffith Park and had a meal together.
As you walked ahead of Mom and me on the trail, full of energy,
we felt so happy and thankful.
Then, for nearly a month, we watched you endure a lonely and painful struggle.
And still, we believed with all our hearts that you would overcome it, as you always had.
After enduring that cruel April, we met you on the first day of May to have a meal together.
Seeing how hard you were trying to pull through, I thought—this time, your parents must step in to help.
When you came to our house on your bicycle that day, we thought, “With this strength, he’ll make it through.”
We grilled steak together and happily ate the pieces you sliced for us.
When you said you’d take care of us in our old age,
we—so desperate for your recovery—failed to fully receive your expression of love.
That night, we saw you in anguish again, something we hadn’t seen in a long time.
We should have held you close and stayed with you.
But your inadequate father, doubting himself,
feared that even a word of nagging might hurt you.
So I told you, “I’ll step out for a bit, please watch the house,” and left.
You, not knowing what was happening or why we were acting that way,
reassured us with your usual calm and gentle voice and expression:
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of the cats and the house.”
We were trying to get you help, hoping it would help you through the crisis more easily.
We stepped out again and reached out to LA County’s Department of Mental Health.
After briefly seeing you again with a clinician, just a little over an hour later,
you, still unaware of what was going on,
pleaded from inside your home for the intruding officers not to come in.
There was no threat, no wrongdoing in your voice—only confusion and concern.
You spoke clearly about your rights. You were even polite.
You had done nothing wrong.
You needed help.
And yet, in our hopes that help would come through others,
you were taken from us—so suddenly,
by the hands of the officers who came to “help.”
You left us for heaven, so alone.
Your father is so sorry.
Always, you faced this long and painful battle with incredible courage.
You did your best to talk with God through it all.
Mom and I witnessed your bravery and your efforts.
And we felt so proud of you—deeply respecting your strength to endure what we could not even imagine.
But your foolish father,
thinking he could help,
asked for help from those who were not ready to offer it.
I am so sorry.
They didn’t know. They had no idea.
They couldn’t begin to understand the long, hard path you had walked.
No one did—except your family, a few of us.
And still, I handed you over to strangers.
I was a fool.
If only I had trusted you, and simply waited…
maybe now, you would still be alive—
even if struggling, at least still breathing.
Yong-ah, how do I mourn your tragic and unjust death?
The pain that tears through Mom’s, Yin-y’s, Jade’s, and my heart—
that pain is nothing compared to the loss of your living breath.
How can I bear the thought that your future,
full of brightness and joy,
was stolen from you—without reason?
It is too precious.
Too heartbreaking.
I will grieve your shortened life for the rest of mine—until I see you again.
Yong, you always thought of others,
always stood up for justice and love.
Your unusually sensitive soul and your pursuit of perfection—
who could criticize that?
If anything, you tried to understand those people,
even to forgive them.
You did nothing wrong.
You ended your life without guilt.
I can see your faith, your beliefs, in your prayers and your writings.
Perhaps God loved you too much.
I miss your smile and your laughter.
I will pray the prayer you prayed.
I will try to live the life you believed in.
I believe that God wanted you near Him,
and that you are now by His side.
Even so, I can’t yet feel joy in that thought.
I miss you too much.
I feel too wronged.
I am too heartbroken.
And Yong-ah—
Dad is so sorry.