"You said you were in the parking lot—why haven't you come upstairs?" ... Fathers in underground parking garages swallowing a sigh at their wives' KakaoTalk messages [An Adult's Wrong-Answer Notebook]

[Financial News]  10 p.m. on Friday. After making it through the grueling survival game of the past week, he finally parks his car in the apartment's underground parking garage.
The engine's faint vibration stops, and even the radio falls silent inside the pitch-black car. He should want to rush to the elevator and collapse onto a soft sofa, but men in their 40s and 50s seem to agree, almost without saying so, that they cannot bring themselves to open the car door just yet.
They rest their foreheads against the steering wheel with their eyes closed, or pass the time aimlessly scrolling up and down on their smartphones.
Until someone taps on the window from outside, this narrow, dark car becomes the only "cave" where Korea's family breadwinners in their 40s and 50s can completely disconnect from all the noise of the world.

Wives often ask, "You said you got to the parking lot, so why are you taking so long to come upstairs? Do you not want to come home?" Absolutely not. It is not because they love their families any less. They are simply taking a moment to catch their breath before shouldering the weight of yet another role the instant they open the door and walk inside.
All day at work, they endure pressure from executives above while staying mindful of junior colleagues below, persevering under the heavy armor of 'Mr. Kim.' But the moment they unlock the front-door keypad and step inside, they have no time to take off that armor. They must quickly put on a new one: that of a 'caring father' who plays with his children and a 'dependable husband' who helps with the housework.
Between these two heavy roles, there is no place for their whole, unguarded selves. The quiet 10 minutes inside the car in the parking garage are like a desperate ritual to barely recharge an exhausted mind before changing from one suit of armor into the other.

The strange sense of comfort provided by the space itself also plays a part. The driver's seat, occupying roughly one pyeong, is free from anyone's interference. Here, at least, they do not have to wait for anyone's approval or force a smile.
They can roughly loosen their ties and exhale the resentment and fatigue that built up throughout the day in one long sigh. No one is there to judge or blame them. Only the blinking light of the dashcam quietly watches over the exhausted breadwinner's silent vigil.

Friday night—are you still sitting in your car in the parking garage, staring blankly into space? There is no need to be chased by guilt over having to hurry upstairs.
Because thanks to those 10 lonely minutes you quietly swallowed without anyone knowing, your home can be filled tonight with bright smiles free of frowns and warm voices.
Now take one deep breath and open the car door. You leave the narrow, dark cave and bravely press the keypad lock on the front door. That broad back, smiling as you willingly put on your second suit of armor for your family, was more admirable and magnificent than any hero in the world this week.
[email protected] Jeon Sang-il Reporter