“Once Again”—A warm, bustling second‑chance family romance set in Seoul’s Yongju Market
Introduction
The first time I heard the clink of metal shutters rolling up at Yongju Market, I felt like I was waking into someone else’s morning—frying oil crackling, vendors bantering, and a family quietly coming apart at the seams. Have you ever watched a show that made you feel seen in your least polished moments: the awkward apologies, the pride you can’t swallow, the love you can’t quite say out loud? Once Again carries those moments with unhurried tenderness, letting us sit with a mother’s sigh, a father’s stubborn thrift, and four adult children learning to start over. It’s not flashy; it’s comforting, like the soup you order after a long day—layered, restorative, and honest. And by the time the Song siblings rediscover how to fight fair and forgive better, you’ll want to call home.
Overview
Title: Once Again (한 번 다녀왔습니다)
Year: 2020
Genre: Family, Romance, Drama (weekend series)
Main Cast: Lee Min-jung, Lee Sang-yeob, Chun Ho-jin, Cha Hwa-yeon, Oh Yoon-ah, Oh Dae-hwan, Lee Cho-hee, Lee Sang-yi, Lee Jung-eun, Ki Do-hoon
Episodes: 100
Runtime: Approximately 35–41 minutes per episode (broadcast vs. streaming versions)
Streaming Platform: Viki (United States)
Overall Story
Yongju Market wakes early, and so does the Song family. Song Young-dal keeps his accounts tight and his principles tighter, while Jang Ok-boon rules the kitchen with a ladle and a soft heart she hides in scolding. Their four adult children—stuntman-turned-life‑juggler Joon-sun, former flight attendant Ga-hee, pediatrician Na-hee, and earnest intern Da-hee—walk in and out of the family home with the bravado of adults and the vulnerability of kids who know there’s always rice on the stove. The drama opens on a season of upheaval: divorces announced, jobs threatened, and pride pricked, until each child, for different reasons, winds up back under the same roof. It’s a premise that could turn shrill, but here it lands like truth: sometimes you go home not because you failed, but because starting fresh needs witnesses. In the bustle of the market, the Songs learn that ordinary love is the hardest kind to practice.
Na-hee and her husband, Yoon Gyu-jin, are pediatricians at the same hospital, an arrangement that once felt romantic and now feels like walking a tightrope in front of co‑workers. Their marriage has frayed into quiet digs and professional one‑upmanship, and when divorce papers appear, they try to keep it private, as if secrecy could blunt the sting. Watching them navigate consult rooms and break rooms while deciding whether to break for good is one of the show’s most honest threads: it asks if two successful adults can unclench long enough to hear the other’s fear. As colleagues watch and rumors ripple, the ex‑in‑laws remain weirdly tender with each other, a sign that the story will choose compassion over spectacle. Even the idea of “marriage counseling” enters the frame not as a punch line but as a lifeline some characters skirt and others grasp. By inviting us into their rounds, the drama treats emotional triage like medicine: diagnose, stabilize, then try again.
Joon-sun, the eldest, wears bravado like a leather jacket, but the zipper sticks. His divorce from Sung Hyun-kyung left him co‑parenting two daughters and shuffling stunt gigs with bills; he’s the personification of “I’m fine” while the roof leaks. When a health scare jolts his ex‑wife, we see him drop the pose and show up, not as a rescuer, but as a responsible father ready to renegotiate the terms of being a family. The series gives him room to fail, apologize, and recalibrate his work so he can be present; it’s less about grand gestures than about learning to show up on Tuesday. In a culture where male pride can be as rigid as a ledger book, Joon-sun’s arc argues for the quiet heroism of humility. His story anchors the sibling chaos with the gentle reminder that love is a verb measured in errands and bedtimes, not speeches.
Ga-hee returns home with her young son, her wings clipped by divorce but her dignity intact. She’s practical about budgets—because a single parent watches family health insurance premiums and grocery receipts in a way that makes every purchase a math problem—and determined to rebuild a gentler daily life for her child. Enter Park Hyo-shin, a younger man whose confession lands like a scooter helmet offered on a windy day: tentative, protective, unexpectedly steady. Their relationship resists the clichés of “noona romance” by letting Ga-hee set the pace, naming boundaries, and honoring her son’s needs first. When Hyo-shin pursues judo training, they practice grown‑up love: long distances, honest updates, and goodbyes without drama—until life loops them back into each other’s orbit. It’s one of the show’s softest delights: second chances that respect first responsibilities.
Da-hee, the youngest, starts out as the family’s quiet fixer—fetching, covering, apologizing—until a workplace stumble forces her to reevaluate who she’s been performing for. She meets Yoon Jae-seok, Gyu-jin’s younger brother, whose teasing warmth hides his own insecurities, and a sweet, secret romance blooms. Their relationship is complicated: they are ex‑in‑laws by technicality and under the watchful eyes of two families with strong opinions. As they negotiate first love with adult stakes, they learn to advocate for themselves, ask for respect, and imagine a future that includes both ambition and tenderness. The drama doesn’t punish them for being young; it mentors them with obstacles that grow them up. When Jae-seok asks the family for Da-hee’s hand, his earnestness shifts the Song home from suspicion to celebration.
Around the siblings, the market’s chorus hums: Kang Cho-yeon, the flamboyant kimbap boss with a secret past, and Yang Chi-soo, the jokester who keeps spirits high. The big neighborhood arc arrives with a shock: a woman named Yeon Hong claims to be Young-dal’s long‑lost sister. For a time, hope outpaces caution, and the family leans into the fantasy—until holes appear and a DNA test unmasks a cruel con. The truth, when it finally steps out, is better than fiction: the real sister has been in their orbit, apron on, ladle in hand, waiting for courage to trump shame. This strand gives Yongju Market its heartthrob—not a person, but a place where found family becomes literal family. In a story about “once again,” reunion is not just romantic; it’s ancestral.
The parents—frugal Young-dal and formidable Ok-boon—are never reduced to obstacles. They are partners who love imperfectly and argue productively, even when betrayal (real or perceived) tempts them to harden. Watching them renegotiate trust in late middle age is quietly radical; marriage isn’t a solved equation but a budget you revisit, edit, and sometimes refinance emotionally the way a couple might watch mortgage refinance rates when money gets tight. Their scenes remind us that stability is built, not inherited, and that tenderness can survive decades of duty. When Ok-boon lays down her pride first, the family learns that “winning” a fight is far less important than choosing each other. It’s the drama’s thesis in a pot of stew: keep it warm, keep it shared, keep it coming.
As the hospital plotline deepens, Na-hee and Gyu-jin move from defensiveness into awkward, necessary honesty, helped along by frank questions from people who’ve known them too long to be fooled. One pointed nudge comes when someone asks Gyu-jin, “You still love Song Na-hee, don’t you?”—a line that cuts through denial like clinical scissors through gauze. Slowly, the exes relearn each other’s languages, setting boundaries at work and rituals at home, until their private gentleness outshouts the gossip. The show treats reconciliation not as amnesia but as accountability with affection. Even their ex‑in‑laws find new footing, caring across the legal lines that divorce redraws. When joyful news finally arrives for the couple, it feels earned, not engineered.
Meanwhile, Joon-sun steadies, Ga-hee learns to receive love as well as give it, and Da-hee claims a voice that isn’t an apology. The market celebrates little victories: a child’s first clear sentence, a reconciled friendship, a new stall opening thanks to a small business loan and neighbors who co‑sign with faith. Everyday economics aren’t a subplot but the table the story eats at: cash‑back credit cards for groceries, hand‑me‑down uniforms, and the relief of a repaired roof after a summer storm. Because the show stays grounded in paychecks and permission slips, the romances feel less like fantasy and more like plans you can implement. Have you ever needed a drama to remind you that love pays the bills by washing dishes and making doctor’s appointments? This one does.
By the final weekends, the scams are diffused, secrets aired, and family photos retaken with new members squeezed in at the edges. The Song children become a team rather than four soloists competing for oxygen, and their parents soften into a couple who chooses to keep choosing each other. Na-hee and Gyu-jin’s path bends toward a fresh start; Joon-sun and Hyun-kyung reimagine partnership around their daughters; Ga-hee and Hyo-shin’s road stretches forward with grown‑up hope; and Da-hee and Jae-seok step into marriage with their eyes open. None of it feels perfect. It feels possible. Which is the loveliest gift a long family drama can give.
Highlight Moments
Opening Shock The Song dining table turns from ordinary banchan to emotional minefield when divorce becomes the night’s main course. You can hear the scrape of chopsticks pause, the parents blinking as if a truck just rolled through the living room. Each child’s confession is different in tone—defensive, sheepish, resolved—but the composite is the same: “We need help.” It’s not melodrama; it’s the humility that kicks off every good turnaround story. From here, the house becomes both shelter and crucible, and the market outside becomes their practice field for trying again.
ER Honesty Na-hee and Gyu-jin, post‑divorce, face a pediatric crisis together that forces muscle memory to outrun hurt feelings. The medical choreography is cool-headed, but the aftermath is raw: they debrief in hushed tones, realizing their professional trust never left even when their marriage did. That gap—competence without closeness—becomes the baseline they refuse to accept. When a colleague’s pointed question exposes lingering love, their careful neutrality finally cracks. It’s less a swoon than a long exhale, the first of many.
“Is it okay for me to like you?” Park Hyo-shin’s confession to Ga-hee is tender without pressure, a permission slip rather than a demand. She smiles, but her answer is measured by a mother’s math: her son’s stability, her own self‑respect, and the risk of being hurt again. Hyo-shin doesn’t push; he waits, shows up, and proves he can belong to a family rhythm instead of rewriting it. When he leaves for training, their goodbye is adult and dignified—then sweeter still when he returns and chooses them again. It’s how the show defines romance: steady, not showy.
Market Reveal A supposed “lost sister” appears, waving an old photo like a passport to family. For a while, the loneliness of yearning makes everyone generous; Young-dal wants so badly to believe that caution feels cruel. But neighbors notice inconsistencies, and the siblings quietly order a DNA test that unspools the scam. The twist lands with a double mercy: truth hurts, but it also clears a path for the real sister—Kang Cho-yeon—to step forward and be received. Reconciliation becomes a feast day at the market.
Da-hee and Jae-seok’s Ask After weeks of secret dates and nervous hallway dodges, Jae-seok stands in front of the Songs to ask for Da-hee’s hand. It’s awkward, heartfelt, and exactly what this family needs to hear: not a declaration against them, but a request to join them. Winning over parents isn’t a one‑scene task; it’s attendance, errands, and courage measured in sincerity. By the time even the prickliest hearts soften, you feel the relief of love that’s been allowed to be public. Their engagement becomes a housewarming for two families.
Final Week Joy As the run closes, the show stitches up what it opened: exes who learned new ways to listen, parents who learned to pause before they scold, and siblings who swapped competition for camaraderie. News quietly rings through the house that Na-hee and Gyu-jin have more than reconciled; they have hope for a growing family, a promise that sounds like laughter echoing down a hallway. The market vendors throw in extra side dishes; the aunties tear up; even the men pretend there’s dust in their eyes. It is not a fairy tale ending; it’s a credible one. Which is rarer—and richer.
Momorable Lines
“Is it okay for me to like you?” – Park Hyo-shin, late middle episodes A simple question that turns consent into courtship, it reframes romance as something Ga-hee gets to choose at her own pace. He asks without angling for pity, honoring her as a mother and a woman who has already survived. The line resets their power dynamic and shows why their pairing feels healing, not flashy. It also promises that love can be gentle even when life is not.
“You still love Song Na-hee, don’t you?” – Yoo Bo-young, second half It’s the scalpel that cuts through Gyu-jin’s denial, a sentence that names what everyone can see and he can’t yet admit. The question shakes loose a season of defensiveness and opens the door to honest repair. You can feel his shoulders drop, as if finally allowed to say “yes” without losing face. From here, every choice he makes carries fewer games and more courage.
“Dad found his sister?” – The Song siblings, marketplace whisper Half hope, half disbelief, it captures the longing that makes good people vulnerable to bad actors. The family’s echoing question becomes the heartbeat of an arc about identity and the ache of separation. When the truth comes out—and the true sister steps in—the same voices turn that question into a cheer. The line is a bridge from naïveté to wisdom without bitterness.
“Let’s not win; let’s understand.” – Jang Ok-boon, after a long night It’s the moment a mother stops tallying blame and starts inviting repair, teaching her adult children that love isn’t a court ruling. She pivots the house from courtroom to classroom, where apologies aren’t admissions of weakness but acts of strength. The shift gives everyone permission to come back to the table. And that table becomes the safest place in the story.
“We’re not perfect, but we’re present.” – Song Joon-sun, speaking to his daughters This is co‑parenting distilled: not promises of easy days, but the concrete vow to show up. The line marks his evolution from swagger to steadiness, choosing bedtime stories over bravado. It also models to the girls that love is predictable in the best way. In a drama full of second chances, this is how a father takes his.
Why It's Special
If you’re craving a story that feels like home, Even When Home Is Complicated, Once Again is that warm bowl of kimchi stew on a rainy night—comforting, a little spicy, and deeply nourishing. Set around a lively traditional market and one unforgettable family, it stitches together everyday mishaps, second chances, and the kind of love that survives slammed doors and stubborn pride. In the United States, you can stream the full series on Rakuten Viki and via the KOCOWA channel on Prime Video, so it’s easy to dive in and stay for all 100 episodes.
Have you ever felt this way: you promise yourself not to go back, and yet your heart keeps circling the same people? Once Again invites you into that feeling through siblings who boomerang home with divorces, heartbreaks, and hopeful dreams. The show doesn’t lecture. It listens—patiently—letting small gestures (a packed lunch, a shared umbrella) speak louder than grand speeches.
What makes it special is how it blends family dramedy with tender romance. The Na siblings collide, retreat, and circle back in patterns that feel true to life. The emotional tone is never one‑note; it’s fizzy with comedy, hushed with regret, then suddenly luminous with forgiveness. Even the market’s clatter—vendors bantering, knives chopping, scooters beeping—becomes a heartbeat that steadies the story.
Writing is the secret engine here. Conversations sound like the ones you rehearse in your head after a fight—messy, defensive, unexpectedly honest. Conflicts aren’t solved by a single epiphany; they thaw across time, episode by episode, the way real families mend. That slow-burn approach is why scenes that might feel ordinary elsewhere land like revelations.
The direction favors intimacy over spectacle. Close-ups linger just long enough to catch micro‑expressions—the softening of a jaw, the apology forming in eyes before it becomes words. Warm lighting and lived‑in sets make kitchens and clinics feel like actual places rather than TV rooms, so when laughter erupts around the dinner table, you can almost smell the seaweed soup.
Acting across generations elevates everything. Veterans ground the drama in wisdom and weariness; younger actors bring spark and awkward hope. Their rhythms—overlapping lines, shared silences—echo the way families really talk. It’s a show where a sigh can carry a decade, and a smile can reboot a relationship.
Genre-wise, Once Again is a shapeshifter. It’s a parental love letter, a workplace comedy, a second‑chance romance, and a sibling coming‑of‑age—often in the same hour. That mix keeps the stakes gentle but genuine: paychecks matter, reputations matter, and feelings—however inconvenient—matter most.
Finally, the series respects time. It trusts viewers to follow incremental change and rewards patience with payoffs that feel earned. When reconciliations arrive, they don’t crash in like storms; they dawn. And when the last credits roll, you’re left with that rare sensation a long drama can deliver: the bittersweet joy of leaving people who feel like neighbors, with the door forever ajar.
Popularity & Reception
When Once Again aired in 2020, weekend TV belonged to this family. As the story edged toward its finale, the drama climbed to a remarkable nationwide peak—Nielsen Korea measured 34.8% and 37.0% for its two-part broadcast on September 6, a number that felt like a collective nod from viewers who found comfort in its world.
Awards night sealed what audiences already knew. At the 2020 KBS Drama Awards, the series was showered with honors, including Grand Prize (Daesang) for veteran star Chun Ho‑jin, Top Excellence for Lee Min‑jung, multiple Excellence Awards, and Best Writer for Yang Hee‑seung—fifteen trophies in all, the kind of sweep that happens when craft, cast, and timing align.
Internationally, it became the week’s ritual for many fans: press play, cook dinner, message friends mid‑episode. The “Sadon Couple” phenomenon—viewers’ nickname for one breakout pairing—sparked compilation clips, reaction threads, and fan art that migrated from Korean forums to global timelines.
Critics and long‑time K‑drama watchers praised the drama’s deft juggling act: making a 100‑episode run feel breezy, keeping romances wholesome yet swoony, and letting domestic conflicts breathe without turning melodramatic. Reviewers singled out the market setting and ensemble chemistry as the show’s steady, beating heart.
What lingered after the finale was a sense of shared healing. In a year when many viewers were physically apart, this show offered proximity of another kind—the closeness of a story that knows your worries and hands them back, softened. That’s why reruns and re-watches still find new fans; the series doesn’t age so much as it settles in.
Cast & Fun Facts
Lee Min‑jung plays Song Na‑hee, a pediatrician whose marriage unravels under the weight of pride and miscommunication. She threads sharpness with vulnerability, turning career focus into a shield you can see cracking scene by scene. Her small comic beats—eye rolls, muttered asides—amp up the charm without stealing tenderness from the heavier moments.
Across the run, Min‑jung’s emotional calibration becomes the show’s compass. When Na‑hee begins to accept her own flaws, her apologies feel bracingly adult, and her laughter feels earned. It’s a performance that explains why she walked away with Top Excellence honors at year’s end.
Lee Sang‑yeob is Yoon Gyu‑jin, the internist who shares hospital corridors—and years of history—with Na‑hee. Sang‑yeob plays him as brilliant yet boyish, confident at work and clumsy at love. His chemistry with Min‑jung is a study in push‑and‑pull, the kind that makes even a shared elevator ride feel like a set piece.
As Gyu‑jin’s defenses soften, Sang‑yeob leans into quiet remorse and gentle humor, a blend that helped him earn an Excellence Award and a share of the Best Couple spotlight. His arc is a reminder that growth in adulthood often looks like humility—and that romance at its best is a daily choice.
Oh Yoon‑ah gives Song Ga‑hee a vivid, lived‑in glow: a single mom who rediscovers self‑worth without surrendering maternal devotion. Her scenes with her son are some of the show’s purest joys—discipline laced with play, tears that quickly become pep talks.
Over time, Oh Yoon‑ah maps Ga‑hee’s journey from hesitance to head‑held‑high confidence, earning her Supporting Actress recognition and a chorus of viewer empathy. Watching her choose herself, and still choose family, is one of the drama’s most satisfying transformations.
Lee Cho‑hee steals hearts as the youngest sibling, Da‑hee, a directionless intern who blossoms into a brave adult. Cho‑hee nails the fumbles and false starts of your twenties—the interviews that go nowhere, the crush that matters too much—with a comic timing that never undercuts sincerity.
Her romance thread—paired opposite Lee Sang‑yi as Jae‑seok—became a phenomenon. Dubbed the “Sadon Couple” by fans, their sweet awkwardness and unforced chemistry scored a Best Couple Award and launched Sang‑yi into breakout status, while Cho‑hee took home Best New Actress. If you ever needed proof that gentle can be swoony, their arc is it.
Chun Ho‑jin anchors the family as patriarch Young‑dal with a performance that wears decades of sacrifice on its shoulders. He is stern without meanness, thrifty without smallness, and his quiet smiles are the show’s unofficial epilogues—assurance that love, here, is practical and persistent.
His Daesang (Grand Prize) win felt inevitable by the finale; he made frugality heroic and forgiveness inevitable, reminding viewers why weekend dramas endure: because fathers can be complicated, and still be home.
Cha Hwa‑yeon plays matriarch Ok‑boon with irresistible gusto—equal parts fuss and fierce loyalty. She fusses about coupons and marriage prospects, but when her children wobble, she’s the first to set the table and the last to judge.
Cha’s rapport with Chun Ho‑jin gives the series a veteran glow; together they model a marriage that argues loudly and loves louder. Their pairing even claimed a share of the Best Couple trophy—a delightful nod to the romance that often hides in plain sight: long, imperfect marriage.
Behind the camera, director Lee Jae‑sang and writer Yang Hee‑seung shape the show’s heartbeat. Lee’s warm, character‑first direction (think Father Is Strange) pairs beautifully with Yang’s dialogue that sounds overheard rather than written; her win for Best Writer simply recognized what viewers already felt—these were conversations worth eavesdropping on.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’ve been wanting a long drama that treats your time with care, Once Again is the rare 100‑episode journey that rewards every hour with laughter, softness, and second chances. Queue it up on a quiet weekend, and consider treating yourself to stable high‑speed internet or exploring online subscription deals so you can watch without interruption; if you travel often, a trusted best VPN for streaming can keep your episodes within reach. Most of all, bring your heart—this family has a chair waiting for you.
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