“Here Comes Love”—A tender daily drama about second chances, small joys, and a mother who learns to love again
Introduction
Have you ever watched a character rebuild after life knocked everything down and thought, “That could be me, trying again tomorrow”? That’s the feeling that washed over me as I sank into Here Comes Love, a weekday K‑drama that treats second chances like sunlight—quiet, steady, and absolutely necessary. I didn’t come for grand twists; I came for the ache of a single mom choosing stability over shame, and for the way a sweet, steadfast man waits without asking for more than she can give. The series moves like a morning—slow at first, then glowing—until you suddenly notice you’re rooting for people who once felt like strangers. If you’ve ever juggled work, parenting, and the question of whether your heart is still allowed to hope, this drama will sit with you the way a good friend does. And by the final stretch, it gently persuades you that love isn’t a rescue boat—it’s the shore you learn to walk toward.
Overview
Title: Here Comes Love (사랑이 오네요)
Year: 2016
Genre: Family, Romance, Melodrama
Main Cast: Kim Ji‑young, Lee Min‑young, Go Se‑won, Lee Hoon
Episodes: 122
Runtime: ~40 minutes per episode (weekday morning slot)
Streaming Platform: Viki
Overall Story
Lee Eun‑hee is the kind of heroine many of us recognize in the mirror: a single mother who measures days by bus schedules, lunch boxes, and the price of groceries. Betrayed by the man who promised to protect her, she learns to hold her head up in a society that still asks single moms to apologize for surviving. Her daughter, Hae‑in, is her anchor and her reason for the late shifts, and each small victory—a paid bill, a teacher’s praise, a night without tears—feels monumental. When Eun‑hee first encounters Na Min‑soo, she isn’t looking for romance; she’s looking for a reliable tomorrow. He notices her steadiness before he notices her smile, which is exactly why we notice him. Their first exchanges are practical, almost shy, as if both are testing whether kindness can be trusted.
Min‑soo’s world is different from Eun‑hee’s in all the ways that complicate K‑drama mornings: an old‑guard father, Na Dae‑gi, who believes lineage decides worth, and relatives who keep score with inheritances instead of memories. In another life, Min‑soo might have drifted along with expectation, but Eun‑hee’s quiet competence unsettles his complacency. He starts showing up in small ways: an umbrella in the rain, a ride when Hae‑in’s school calls, a respectful step back when she needs space. That respect disarms her more than any bouquet. Have you ever been loved in a way that felt like permission to breathe? That’s the air the show slowly fills the screen with.
Every daily drama needs friction, and Here Comes Love finds it in Na Sun‑young, whose hunger for approval sharpens into resentment the moment Eun‑hee becomes visible. Sun‑young reads Eun‑hee’s dignity as defiance, and familial politics as a zero‑sum game—if the single mother wins, she must be losing. She stirs doubt at the dinner table and in boardrooms, whispering that Eun‑hee’s past is a liability the family can’t afford. It’s cruel, yes, but the cruelty comes from a very human anxiety: the fear that love, like power, runs out. Watching Sun‑young, I found myself asking if I’ve ever confused scarcity with truth.
Meanwhile, another man’s shadow stretches across Eun‑hee’s fragile peace: Kim Sang‑ho, a figure with two names and a pocketful of unfinished business. The dual identity—Sang‑ho to some, Geum Bang‑seok to others—carries the thick scent of a past that refuses to stay buried. He threads through the story as a reminder that choices echo, sometimes louder than we expect, sometimes long after we pretend we’ve moved on. When he crosses paths with Hae‑in, the drama doesn’t rush to villainize him; it lets us sit in that uneasy place where adults’ secrets brush against a child’s innocence. The question isn’t only what he did; it’s who he might still become if he faced it.
Eun‑hee’s resilience is never performative. We see the spreadsheet anxiety, the lost sleep, the nights when she replays old betrayals like a bad radio signal she can’t switch off. Have you ever stared at your bank app and then opened a window to feel a little less trapped? She does that, too. To cope, she leans on small rituals—making Hae‑in’s favorite soup, keeping a promise to herself to walk home under the same streetlight every evening, admitting she might need help. The show handles those moments with tenderness, the way a good counselor would. It even nudged me to think about things dramas rarely say out loud: how online therapy can be a lifeline when shame keeps you from asking, and how a consultation with a family law attorney can turn panic into a plan when custody rumors start swirling.
Min‑soo doesn’t try to “fix” Eun‑hee’s life; he steadies it. Their love grows sideways—through errands, hospital corridors, PTA meetings—until one day it’s simply there, like a warm coat you forgot you were wearing. But Sun‑young escalates. She frames Eun‑hee’s independence as ingratitude, and whispers that Hae‑in deserves a “proper” home, meaning one she controls. The sociocultural context matters here: in mid‑2010s Korea, divorce stigma and gendered expectations still pressed hard, especially outside Seoul’s most progressive pockets. Eun‑hee’s insistence that being a good mother and being a woman with boundaries can coexist feels quietly radical in that frame. It’s in these episodes that the series becomes not just comforting but bracing.
A custody scare forces everyone to show their hand. Eun‑hee refuses to weaponize pity; she brings receipts—attendance sheets, rent ledgers, teacher notes—and looks a judge in the eye. Min‑soo steps forward publicly for the first time, not with grandstanding but with testimony about character: punctuality, patience, the way Hae‑in’s drawings have more sun in them lately. Sun‑young counters with pedigree and polished narratives, while Sang‑ho’s past leaks at the edges, threatening to pull the whole family into a reckoning they’ve postponed for years. It’s tense without turning sensational, a reminder that the most terrifying battles are the ones fought in fluorescent‑lit rooms.
When the Na family fractures, the show resists easy scapegoats. Dae‑gi—stern, pride‑caked—shows glints of the man he might have been if he’d chosen tenderness over tradition. Yang Bok‑soon, Min‑soo’s mother, cracks in the most human way when she realizes she’s inherited more than silver: she’s inherited the power to stop repeating harm. The family dinner table, once an arena, tenderizes into a place where apologies can land. Not all at once, and not perfectly, but enough to matter. Isn’t that how forgiveness usually arrives—grain by grain, not in a flood?
The truth about Sang‑ho/Geum Bang‑seok finally surfaces in a sequence that could have gone campy but doesn’t. Instead of a chase, we get a confrontation that asks whether accountability is a door to redemption or merely a lock. Eun‑hee refuses to let anger raise her daughter for her; she chooses boundaries over revenge, a choice that feels like the grown‑up version of a happy ending. Sang‑ho is neither absolved nor destroyed; he’s tasked with the long work of repair, off‑camera, as real life would demand.
By the final weeks, romance and family don’t feel like separate plots. Min‑soo and Eun‑hee walk Hae‑in to school in the morning, argue over takeout, count their blessings with an almost embarrassed sincerity. The grand lesson is a small one: durable love looks like punctuality, like showing up for the recital and the dentist, like discussing life insurance quotes because you want your kid safe even on your worst day. I felt a surprising lump in my throat watching them fold laundry and talk about next month—because isn’t that what most of us want, a next month? The last images are soft, but not vague; they suggest that happiness is a habit, not a lottery win.
And when the credits roll, the drama doesn’t ask you to believe in fairy tales; it asks you to believe in practice. If you’ve ever rebuilt, if you’ve ever wondered whether a quiet love can be a brave love, Here Comes Love whispers yes—and means it.
Highlight Moments
Meeting in the rain, a borrowed umbrella The first real connection between Eun‑hee and Min‑soo isn’t fireworks; it’s logistics. She’s juggling a wet backpack, a late bus, and a sleepy Hae‑in, and he wordlessly angles his umbrella to cover them both. The camera lingers not on faces but on hands—his steady, hers trembling—until the smallness of the gesture feels enormous. It’s the opposite of love‑bombing; it’s love that doesn’t demand to be seen. I remember thinking: this is how trust begins, measured in inches, not declarations.
Sun‑young’s dinner table ambush In a scene that made my jaw clench, Sun‑young invites Eun‑hee “as family” and then lays a trap disguised as concern. Questions curve into accusations; compliments hide barbs about background and “stability.” Eun‑hee doesn’t flip the table; she keeps her voice level and refuses to apologize for raising a happy child without their help. Min‑soo’s silence is telling—he’s learning how to choose Eun‑hee publicly, not just privately. Have you ever watched someone you love practice courage in real time? It’s magnetic.
The custody hearing that becomes a character study The series saves its most grounded writing for the courtroom. Eun‑hee shows up with documents and dignity; Min‑soo speaks specifically about Hae‑in’s routines; Sun‑young arrives with polished narratives and allies who owe her favors. What could have been melodramatic shorthand becomes a slow‑burn lesson in how truth often sounds quiet, while manipulation craves echo. When the judge asks Hae‑in to describe her happiest day, the answer isn’t expensive; it’s mundane and therefore irrefutable. I exhaled a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
Sang‑ho’s two names, one mirror The reveal of “Geum Bang‑seok” isn’t treated like a magic trick; it’s treated like a mirror Sang‑ho can’t dodge. The show lets him be messy—guilty, defensive, and scared—while also giving him a road he can walk that doesn’t trample Eun‑hee’s boundaries. For once, repentance is built from actions, not tearful monologues. It’s rare to see a daily drama invite consequence without indulging in ruin. That restraint felt like respect—for us and for the characters.
Hae‑in’s school performance Nothing shouts “family” louder than who claps for you from the third row. Eun‑hee thinks she’ll be cheering alone, but Min‑soo slips in with flowers slightly too big for a child, and then—hesitantly—two elders appear at the back, unsure where they fit. The applause at the end is off‑beat and messy, the way healing usually is. Hae‑in bows, spots them, and breaks into the kind of smile you can’t fake. It’s not forgiveness wrapped in a bow; it’s a promise to try again tomorrow.
A rooftop conversation about ordinary futures The confession scene isn’t fireworks on a bridge—it’s two tired adults on a rooftop, trading fears like recipes. Min‑soo says he’s not promising perfection; he’s promising consistency. Eun‑hee doesn’t promise to stop flinching; she promises to tell the truth about her fear. They plan groceries, not gondolas. When they decide to move forward, it feels less like a crescendo and more like a calendar reminder that both of them actually keep.
Memorable Lines
“I won’t teach my daughter to beg for love—not even from me.” – Lee Eun‑hee Said after a fraught family dinner, it reframes motherhood as leadership rather than martyrdom. In that moment, Eun‑hee stops managing other people’s comfort and starts modeling boundaries for Hae‑in. It shifts the power dynamic with Sun‑young, who expects apologies as tribute. And it nudges Min‑soo to show love in ways that protect their dignity, not just their romance.
“Kindness isn’t charity—it’s consistency.” – Na Min‑soo He tells this to Eun‑hee when she doubts his staying power after another skirmish with his family. The line dismantles the savior narrative and replaces it with presence: school pickups, honest conversations, and unglamorous errands. It signals that he’s not here to polish her image; he’s here to partner her life. From that point on, their dates look like teamwork.
“I kept confusing attention with love, and they’re not the same.” – Na Sun‑young After one of her schemes backfires, Sun‑young cracks in a private scene and admits the engine under her cruelty. The admission doesn’t excuse her, but it humanizes her, and the show gives her a thin but real thread toward better choices. That realization also mirrors the drama’s thesis: sustainable affection is quiet, not performative. Watching her say it felt like watching an antagonist step off a cliff edge she built herself.
“If the past knocks, I’ll answer—but I won’t let it move back in.” – Lee Eun‑hee This is Eun‑hee’s response when Sang‑ho resurfaces and demands an audience with old ghosts. It’s a boundary wrapped in grace, the line between accountability and self‑harm. She isn’t erasing history; she’s curating access to her present. That clarity protects Hae‑in and sets the tone for how the adults resolve long‑standing harm.
“Small happiness is still happiness; it’s the only kind that lasts.” – Na Dae‑gi In a late‑stage conversation, Dae‑gi softens and admits he spent decades chasing the kind of success that couldn’t look him in the eye. The line lands because it comes from a man who once worshiped scale over substance. It also echoes the show’s everyday ethos—measured gestures, kept promises, warm meals over grand speeches. When a patriarch says it out loud, the family finally exhales.
Why It's Special
The Love Is Coming slips into your day like a warm cup of morning tea—unhurried, comforting, and quietly restorative. Set in the rhythms of everyday Seoul, this long-form melodrama invites you to sit with a single mother’s second chance at love and the small joys that rebuild a life. If you’re ready to start, it’s currently listed to stream free (with ads) on Plex, with availability varying by region as catalogs rotate. As of January 2026, that’s the easiest doorway for many viewers to press play. Have you ever felt this way—needing a show that simply keeps you company without shouting for your attention?
At its heart is a story about repair. Not the kind that arrives with fireworks, but the kind you recognize from your own kitchen table: apologies that take time to form, trust that grows back one conversation at a time, and a community that—despite its quirks—holds you up when you stumble. The series understands that romance is often braided with responsibility, especially for parents whose love lives must coexist with lunchboxes, bills, and bedtime stories.
What makes The Love Is Coming special is how it respects your patience. Across a sprawling, weekday-morning run, it chooses accumulation over shock—letting glances turn into dialogues, and everyday conflicts swell into turning points. The reward is emotional depth that sneaks up on you; by the time an estranged child reaches for a parent’s hand, you’ll realize the show has been mapping your heart all along.
Director Bae Tae‑Sub has an instinct for textures: sunlight through lace curtains, steam curling off a pot of seaweed soup, the hush of an elevator ride after an argument. His staging gives the actors time to breathe, and his camera lingers just long enough for truth to settle. That gentle formal touch makes the series feel like a lived-in diary rather than an engineered soap.
Screenwriter Kim In‑Kang threads forgiveness, parenting, and late-blooming desire into a tapestry that feels both old-fashioned and right-now. The dialogue honors the way people really speak when they’re tired, proud, or afraid to ask for help. If you’ve ever rehearsed a difficult sentence on your walk home, you’ll recognize these characters immediately. Kim’s voice would go on to anchor the morning slot’s successor as well, signaling a creative throughline for viewers who follow SBS’s daytime tradition.
Tonally, the drama blends family melodrama with soft romance and slice‑of‑life warmth. It is less about sweep-you-off-your-feet fireworks than about the tingly courage to try again. That genre blend makes it perfect for viewers who love relationship-centered storytelling but also crave the neighborhood bustle—markets, courtyards, and shared meals that make a city feel like home.
Another quiet marvel is the show’s pacing. Spanning well over a hundred episodes, the narrative uses its length to earn every reconciliation and setback. The cumulative effect is cathartic; when kindness finally arrives for someone who’s truly tried, you feel it in your bones. Have you ever waited so long for a bit of good news that you almost missed it when it finally knocked?
And then there’s accessibility. If you’re brand-new to daily K‑dramas, The Love Is Coming is a welcoming first step—easy to start, easy to pause, and easy to fold into your life. If you’re already a veteran of the format, it feels like a return to first principles: sincerity, steadiness, and the belief that ordinary love stories deserve extraordinary care.
Popularity & Reception
In South Korea, The Love Is Coming took its place in SBS’s weekday 08:30 time slot—a long‑running tradition that nurtures multigenerational viewership. Morning audiences tuned in for companionship as much as plot, and this series met them where they lived: breakfast tables, commutes, and breaks between errands. That context matters; in the morning slot, success looks like faithful company day after day.
Online, the drama found affectionate word-of-mouth. On fan hubs and databases, viewers often describe it as a “comfort watch,” praising its warmth and the way it lets performances unfold without hurry. The conversation has remained steady—less about cliffhangers and more about how a scene made them call their moms, text an old friend, or forgive themselves for a past misstep.
Industry recognition arrived at year’s end when Kim Ji‑young’s work was honored at the SBS Drama Awards in a long‑form category—an affirmation that quiet excellence can shine in a crowded year. For a daily series, that kind of nod signals both craft and staying power.
Internationally, its second life on ad‑supported platforms has helped the show slip into new living rooms. Catalog rotations have brought backlist titles to casual browsers and nostalgic fans alike, transforming a once‑morning ritual into an all‑hours companion for global viewers discovering (or rediscovering) its gentle charms.
Critically, the drama is framed as dependable rather than flashy—a portrait of ordinary resilience that rewards viewers who favor character over spectacle. In a landscape crowded with high‑concept thrillers, The Love Is Coming stands as a reminder that the stakes of daily love are plenty dramatic on their own.
Cast & Fun Facts
Kim Ji‑young anchors the series as Lee Eun‑hee, a single mother whose every decision must balance personal hope with parental duty. She plays weariness without surrender—shoulders squared, voice softening only when it counts. You can feel the years she’s lived press gently on every choice, which gives later moments of joy a luminous, earned quality.
What lingers about Kim Ji‑young is her talent for silent confession; a glance across a hallway tells you everything she cannot say to protect her child. Her performance was recognized at the 2016 SBS Drama Awards in a long‑form category, a nod that mirrors the audience’s steady admiration episode after episode.
Lee Min‑young portrays Na Sun‑young with layered grace—equal parts elegance and ache. She embodies ambition tempered by regret, the kind of woman who can hold her head high and still admit, later, that the wind felt cold. Have you ever argued fiercely only to wish you’d chosen tenderness five minutes sooner? That’s the line Lee walks so beautifully here.
Beyond this series, Lee Min‑young would go on to catch the global spotlight again in later roles, which makes revisiting The Love Is Coming a small revelation; you watch a familiar star sharpen the tools that would win her newer fans years down the line. Seeing those roots enhances the pleasure of her every close‑up.
Go Se‑won gives Na Min‑soo a grounded charm—steadfast without being stiff, considerate without losing his own center. He’s especially good at the long exhale before honesty, the beat that tells you a character has finally decided to be brave. In a show about repair, that kind of stillness is worth its weight in gold.
Watch how Go Se‑won adjusts around others: the softened tone with elders, the protective posture with children, the guarded warmth with someone who once hurt him. Those micro‑choices build a portrait of a man who has learned that love survives not by winning arguments, but by listening well.
Lee Hoon plays Kim Sang‑ho—also known at times as Geum Bang‑suk—with a lively mix of heart and humor. That dual‑name thread hints at shifting roles and the masks people wear to get through hard days. He turns potential broad strokes into human beats, reminding you that even the most comedic detours are rooted in someone’s fear of being truly seen.
In later arcs, Lee Hoon becomes a kind of pressure valve for the ensemble, letting tenderness in after tense stretches. His timing is impeccable: a tilt of the head, a surprised laugh, a sudden decision to tell the truth. Those choices keep the story from calcifying, proving that levity can be an engine for empathy.
Behind the camera, director Bae Tae‑Sub and writer Kim In‑Kang shape a tandem rhythm—measured scenes, uncluttered frames, and dialogue that trusts subtext. Bae’s restraint invites you closer; Kim’s structure rewards your patience. Together they define what this morning slot can be: an art of the everyday that carries you, gently, toward hope.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’re craving a drama that feels like a steady hand on your shoulder, The Love Is Coming is the kind of companion you can live with—unrushed, sincere, and quietly luminous. If it isn’t in your local catalog, many viewers use a best VPN for streaming to access ad‑supported options while traveling, and the show itself is an easy fit alongside your existing streaming subscription. Settle in, dim the lights on your 4K smart TV, and let its patient tenderness remind you that ordinary love stories are anything but small. Have you ever needed a series to make your home feel warmer? This one will.
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