“Then why still music?”

Mr. Park glared at his wife and walked into the house. There, he saw the girls doing their homework, with the den windows still tightly sealed. His heart sank. He plodded to his bedroom and shut the door.

Mr. Park said very little that weekend. The girls took it as a sign that his mood was improving when on Sunday afternoon, he agreed to their usual game of post-church badminton, even with the boom box going full blast.

As a student in Korea, Mr. Park had been a badminton champ who stunned opponents with his ruthless, lightning-fast smashes. But in America, with his daughters, he played American badminton—soft strokes, big loops, lots of laughter, lots of pointless running. He always took on both the girls at once, and deliberately let them win most of the time just so he didn’t have to watch them sulk.

The girls noticed something different about his game that evening—the old Park Kee Hyun of South Pusan Technical University was reemerging, stroke by stroke. Soon, he was slamming the shuttlecock across the net at such velocity that at one point, it grazed Rosemary’s arm and left a crimson line. And he wasn’t letting the girls win, either. Mira called the game off when she realized they never got past two or three volleys. Their father grabbed a few loud gulps of iced barley tea and retired to the house with his head held high.

With their Dad out, the girls played a leisurely round—swooping parabolas, giggles punctuated with cries of “Oops!” and “D’oh!” They must have lost track of time because the boom box had stopped and it was dark by the time they were done. They ran back into the house, reeking of perspiration and bug spray.

Their father was still in the shower, which was very unusual. They could hear the water running. After knocking on the door five times and getting no answer, Rosemary asked their mother to get the master key.

Mrs. Park banged on the door herself before sliding the key into the lock. Finally, with jittery hands, she pushed the bathroom door open.

Mr. Park, head minister at All-Friends Worship and father of two, sat lifeless in a sea of murky red, his knees tucked under his chin. A box cutter with a yellow plastic handle sat neatly in the soap dish, its blade retracted so no one else could hurt themselves. He faced the door with his eyes closed, and under the endless cascade of the shower, he looked like he was still crying.