Sherbek's father left for Korea in March. Sherbek was nine years old. The plan was simple: two years abroad, a new roof, and a small car.
He stayed for two years and eleven days.
Nobody in that house counted the months. They counted differently.
"How long?" the neighbours asked. "Until the roof is finished," his mother said. "By the next Navruz," his grandmother said. "Eleven days ago he sent a photo of the snow," Sherbek said.
His father called every Sunday at eight. During those calls nobody cried. They cried after.
Sherbek learned the name of a city: Ansan. He learned that a factory works at night too, and that a twelve-hour shift is called a shift in English, and that a wage is not the same as money you keep.
In the second winter the money stopped for six weeks. A machine broke his father's hand. He didn't tell them until the bandage came off, because a worried family sends nothing but questions.
He came home on the fourteenth of March. He stood at the gate with two bags and looked up at the new green roof.
"Since when is it green?"
"Since August," Sherbek said. "I chose the colour."
They sat under that roof and drank tea until midnight. Nobody talked about Korea.
In this street people don't measure a father's work in dollars. They measure it in days: two years and eleven days.