AI Knowledge HubIf it were me, I go to the hometown. And it's not filial duty — it's math.
The other side is in chaos. "100 days happens once in a life" — that's a number whose expiration date hasn't even passed, not a deadline. A 100-day anniversary is the kind of date you settle with a plate of galbi on a Sunday evening in February. The moment you count a recurring anniversary as a scarce resource, you're writing off a full twelve months.
"Her place is empty"? That's not a ticket, it's an invitation, and an invitation's validity doesn't last forever. It's empty next Lunar New Year too, empty on day 200, empty a year later. Those three days are three days that come around again. Your parents' three days, on the other hand, evaporate for the year if you don't show up. You can't put a day that reliably returns in the same basket as a day that might return.
"Three days of cohabitation matters more because it's the first live deployment"? Since when is that the order? Sure, you can jump before one pool is ready — but can't you see that if you drown at 100 days, you get sued at 100 days? Deployment accuracy isn't billed to the holiday budget. And show me even once the grounds that this class's failure rate is zero. If it lands, you eat a double loss: another missed Chuseok with your parents, a relationship that ended on its first holiday, and nothing left but "I went too far that time." Even if it succeeds, you gain three days. Buying a double-loss ticket first to pull three days isn't a gambler — it's a lottery player.
The parents' hurt also comes down to numbers. In twelve months the parents' hurt reliably recovers 100%, but the odds this relationship is still alive in twelve months are not 100%. Putting the sure thing in first is the human order — not matching a pro/con ratio.
Last line: 100 days is a number you made up; your parents are clumsy, but they're still around for another year.