My Only One—A weekend family saga where a daughter’s resilience and a father’s secret fight their way back to love
Introduction
The first time I met Kim Do‑ran, she was holding her breath—polite at the dinner table, brave in public, alone in the dark. Have you ever kept moving because standing still would hurt too much? My Only One doesn’t ask you to admire its heroine from afar; it sits beside her on the bus ride home, hears the scraped-raw thoughts she never says out loud, and lets you feel the ache of wanting a family that fully wants you back. And then it hands you a secret: the father she was told to forget never stopped loving her, and he’s watching from just beyond the light. This is not a flashy revenge plot; it’s a slow, steady climb toward dignity where romance, forgiveness, and chosen kinship feel earned. By the end, I was rooting not only for a couple but for a household learning—sometimes clumsily—how to be kinder than their past.
Overview
Title: My Only One (하나뿐인 내편)
Year: 2018–2019
Genre: Family, Melodrama
Main Cast: Uee, Choi Soo‑jong, Lee Jang‑woo, Yoon Jin‑yi, Jung Eun‑woo, Na Hye‑mi, Park Sung‑hoon
Episodes: 106
Runtime: 35 minutes per episode
Streaming Platform: Currently unavailable on Netflix, Hulu, Disney+, or Viki in the U.S. (last checked January 22, 2026).
Overall Story
Kim Do‑ran grows up in a modest home where love is unevenly divided: an adoptive father who champions her education and character, an adoptive mother and sister who treat her kindness as competition rather than care. After a tragic accident takes the one parent who believed in her, Do‑ran is pushed out—no savings, no safety net, just a suitcase and stubborn hope. Have you ever had to smile at work while your whole life felt like it was being measured by other people’s grudges? That’s where she lives—between part-time jobs and a civil service exam, patching the day together one coin at a time. In parallel, a middle-aged man quietly steps back into the world after nearly three decades away, carrying a name that isn’t the one he was born with and a secret the world would punish if it knew. His name now is Kang Soo‑il, and the daughter he lost is Do‑ran.
Soo‑il’s first act isn’t a dramatic reunion; it’s employment—steady, invisible, safe—driving for the Wang family, owners of Bom & Food, a long-standing food company that prides itself on tradition. The Wangs are the kind of household where money can fix inconveniences but not temperament, where corporate rank spills into living-room hierarchies. In one of those daily whirls, Do‑ran helps the family’s grandmother, Geum‑byung, during a confused, dementia-laced episode—an act of decency that will later change her fate. Through that doorway, Do‑ran becomes a secretary at Bom & Food, and the story finally lets her stand upright at a desk with her name on it. Meanwhile, Soo‑il keeps circling the edges: bringing small comforts, settling dangers from the shadows, and swallowing the fear that telling the truth could ruin her life. The drama’s heartbeat is already clear—how do you love someone well when your name is the first thing that could hurt them?
Inside Bom & Food, Do‑ran keeps bumping into Wang Dae‑ryook, a director who’s gentler than his suit suggests and braver than he thinks. Their first encounters are prickly, the kind of misunderstandings that make both of them roll their eyes as they walk away, but respect grows where competence lives. Class difference is the third person in every conversation they have: can a woman who takes night buses really belong in a house with guest rooms larger than her entire apartment? Yet Dae‑ryook is drawn to the way Do‑ran refuses to be small, the way she meets humiliation with grace rather than resentment. Have you ever liked someone because of how they treat people who can’t help them? That’s the gravity here—the daily acts that turn admiration into love.
When past debts come knocking—literally in the form of loan sharks at Do‑ran’s adoptive family’s door—Soo‑il risks exposure to shield her, quietly negotiating and paying what he can from a chauffeur’s wages. It’s an act of parental love, but it also reframes the story’s economics: poverty isn’t a moral failing; it’s a storm you survive together. In another country we might talk about “debt consolidation” or a payment plan; in Do‑ran’s world, it’s still handshakes, threats, and the shame of owing more than you can explain. Meanwhile, at the Wang house, the lines of loyalty are drawn by birth order and dinner seating charts, not by right and wrong, and Do‑ran’s presence irritates those who believe privilege should be inherited, not earned. Her competence, though, is undeniable—she stabilizes crises at work, de-escalates family tempers, and keeps showing up. And in the soft spaces between crises, she and Dae‑ryook begin to imagine a future they might be allowed to want.
The romance doesn’t get a free pass. Dae‑ryook’s mother, Oh Eun‑young, sees in Do‑ran not only a social mismatch but a challenge to the fragile order she’s curated. Jang Da‑ya—married into the family through Dae‑ryook’s brother—keeps score like it’s a career, and every kindness toward Do‑ran reads, to her, like theft. Still, love insists. Grandmother Geum‑byung’s affection and the family patriarch’s calm face down the resistance until a wedding becomes possible, modest in trimmings but enormous in courage. For a few episodes, the house is kinder; Do‑ran finds, if not a right to belong, then at least a willingness to let her try. And then a door opens that no one is ready for.
Da‑ya stumbles upon Do‑ran meeting Soo‑il and starts pulling at the loose threads of identity. The revelations arrive like winter—first a chill, then the ground itself becomes hard. The man helping Do‑ran is her biological father, and worse by the family’s measure, he once stood accused in the death of Da‑ya’s father. The stigma of incarceration in Korea remains a heavy cultural weight; even an accident becomes a brand that refuses to wash off. For Eun‑young, this isn’t just a scandal; it’s proof that she was right to distrust. The household that had reluctantly embraced Do‑ran turns cold, and what had looked like a fairytale turns into the loneliest hallway in the world.
What follows is the series’ most difficult honesty: love isn’t enough when a wall of grief stands between families. Do‑ran and Dae‑ryook separate, not because they’ve stopped loving each other, but because the past keeps pulling their hands apart. Have you ever ended something good because the timing was cruel? Do‑ran returns to a smaller life by choice—work, quiet dinners, the slow art of being okay again. Soo‑il, meanwhile, refuses to disappear; he stands where his daughter can find him, neither demanding forgiveness nor hiding from consequence. And then the story does what weekend dramas do best—it lets time be a healer and truth be a witness.
New evidence surfaces, and what had looked like murder is reframed. The accident that shattered multiple families is understood in full, and Soo‑il is cleared, not only legally but morally, to rejoin a society that once excluded him. A man who could have chosen bitterness opens a neighborhood bakery instead—work that is small, honest, and nourishing in all the ways a heart needs. In another context, you’d call this “starting over” with a “small business” plan; here, it’s penance and purpose baked fresh each morning. Do‑ran becomes not his burden but his partner in building a daily life, and the adoptive family—older, chastened, more grateful—begins to knit itself into that new normal. It’s not triumph; it’s relief, and that’s just as moving.
The Wang household changes, too. Eun‑young’s posture softens under the weight of her son’s quiet, consistent love; she learns that protecting status can look, from the outside, a lot like wounding your own. Da‑ya faces the mirror and the limits of her resentment; grief doesn’t grant you a license to be cruel forever. Company politics calm as real growth replaces performance, and Dae‑ryook—always steady—does the slow work of earning back not Do‑ran’s affection (which never left) but her safety. Around them, Korea’s generational etiquette—filial piety, table manners as moral tests, the careful way apologies are given and received—becomes the grammar of reconciliation. If you’ve ever wished a family would choose peace over pride, the show knows that hope by name.
When Dae‑ryook finally reaches for Do‑ran again, it isn’t a grand gesture; it’s an invitation to resume an interrupted life, with better boundaries and braver truth. The proposal this time is not a beginning but a homecoming, a way of saying, “We’ve learned, and we won’t make you carry our fear.” Do‑ran accepts not because she’s forgiven everything quickly, but because everyone has done the work slowly. Have you ever watched two people promise to be kinder than their history? That’s the final chapter—remarriage not as a redo but as a reward for growing up. The curtain falls on a promise to walk forward together.
And here’s a neat real-world note: the series was extended from its original plan to 106 episodes because audiences kept showing up for it, week after week—a testament to how deeply these characters resonated with viewers across age groups. Its weekend run from September 15, 2018, to March 17, 2019, made dinner-table conversation in countless homes, a reminder that “family drama” isn’t an insult; it’s a mirror. If you’ve ever juggled bills, in‑law expectations, and the question of whether love can survive hard truth, this story will feel like a familiar street. And as streaming availability changes, many fans still hunt it down for rewatch nights because the comfort endures. That gentle, steady pull is why the title feels less like a claim and more like a prayer.
Highlight Moments
Episode 1 Do‑ran’s life collapses in a single day: her adoptive father dies in an accident, and the home that once made room for her packs up her things without hesitation. The scene is unhurried and merciless, showing how grief and money worries can turn people against the one who needs them most. You can feel the humiliation of counting coins for a deposit while pretending not to cry in front of a landlord. This is where the drama says, “She deserves better,” and you believe it. It’s also where Soo‑il, newly released, first watches from afar—hopeful but frightened of causing harm. The two storylines don’t touch yet, but the gravity between them is unmistakable.
Episode 8 A moment of compassion opens a career: Do‑ran gently guides the confused grandmother Geum‑byung to safety, and the family notices. She’s offered a position at Bom & Food, and with it, the dignity of reliable work. The series understands how a steady paycheck is more than math; it’s identity, routine, proof that your effort counts. This is also where Dae‑ryook begins to see the difference between politeness and character. In a house that prizes status, Do‑ran earns respect the only way that lasts—by showing up. It’s the first time she breathes without bracing.
Episode 20 Loan sharks slam into the story, and Soo‑il steps forward as a guardian angel on a bus driver’s salary. He negotiates, pays, and takes the danger onto himself, proving that love isn’t loud; it’s useful. Viewers who’ve wrestled with credit card debt will recognize the fear on screen—the ringing phone, the shame, the helpless arithmetic—and the quiet relief when someone finally says, “We’ll figure this out.” Do‑ran doesn’t know the whole truth yet, but she feels safer than she did the night before. The camera lingers on Soo‑il’s face afterward, brave and broken in equal measure. It’s a father learning how to protect without permission.
Episode 32 The first wedding arrives like spring after a long winter. Dae‑ryook and Do‑ran, against real opposition, choose each other and step into a life that will test that choice. The joy is textured: laughter at the table, a private vow to keep listening when the house gets loud, the shy depth of two people who didn’t grow up with fairy-tale expectations. Even Eun‑young’s reluctant blessing carries the weight of a mother’s fear dressed up as principle. For a few precious episodes, the home softens and the couple builds small rituals—a shared breakfast, a hallway kiss before work—that feel like wealth. It’s beautiful precisely because it’s ordinary.
Episode 60 Secrets detonate. Da‑ya discovers Do‑ran visiting Soo‑il; identities unravel; the old case resurfaces, connecting Soo‑il to Da‑ya’s father’s death. The family’s warmth evaporates, and Do‑ran’s marriage buckles under collective grief. Watching Dae‑ryook choose between protecting his wife and obeying his mother is brutal because either choice hurts someone he loves. Do‑ran walks away not to punish him but to stop the bleeding. It’s the kind of episode that makes you pause the screen and breathe before pressing play again.
Episode 90 Truth finally has paperwork. New evidence reframes the decades-old tragedy, and Soo‑il is cleared. He doesn’t celebrate with speeches; he leases a small storefront and begins a bakery, turning apology into bread. The show dignifies that decision—no shortcuts, no grand rebranding—just early mornings and clean counters. Do‑ran smiles like someone who can finally exhale. The past doesn’t vanish, but it stops defining what comes next.
Episode 106 The ending is tender, not flashy: a promise to remarry and to hold the line they drew for each other when everything was hard. Dae‑ryook’s voice is steady, Do‑ran’s eyes are wet, and the family looks on with the humility that comes after learning what love costs. It’s not a fairy tale; it’s a blueprint for mercy. The title, at last, feels literal and earned—each has become the other’s “only one,” not by fate but by practice. You close the screen and feel like calling someone you’ve been too proud to forgive. And that’s a gift.
Memorable Lines
“I’m not asking for forgiveness; I’m asking for a chance.” – Kang Soo‑il, Episode 20 Said after he quietly settles a dangerous debt, it’s a line that separates apology from action. He’s not erasing the past; he’s choosing work over excuses. The moment reframes fatherhood as service, not authority, and that shift ripples through the rest of the series. It also plants the hope that truth, when it comes, won’t have to fight alone.
“If loving you is a mistake, I’ll make it again tomorrow.” – Wang Dae‑ryook, Episode 32 This confession lands after a day of family pushback and social math about class. It captures how love survives when approval is rationed. Dae‑ryook’s stubborn tenderness is the antidote to a house built on performance. The line signals a marriage born of choice, not convenience.
“Do you know how many nights I practiced being okay?” – Kim Do‑ran, Episode 61 After the separation, Do‑ran’s voice cracks on this sentence, and you can hear all the solo dinners and bus rides it contains. The question isn’t a plea for pity; it’s a boundary: she deserves a love that doesn’t make her rehearse resilience every day. It deepens her arc from survival to standards. And it challenges everyone around her to offer care that doesn’t come with conditions.
“Family isn’t blood; it’s the hands that pull you up.” – Kim Dong‑chul (in Do‑ran’s memory), Episode 3 Remembered after she is kicked out, this line gives Do‑ran permission to build a new definition of home. It honors the adoptive father who chose her and indicts the ones who used her goodness as a mirror they didn’t want to look into. The memory becomes a compass that keeps her from settling for half‑love. It’s also the bridge that allows reconciliation later—because chosen love can be chosen again.
“The truth was late, but it kept walking.” – Narration over Soo‑il’s exoneration, Episode 90 The sentence reframes justice as persistence, not spectacle. It acknowledges the years stolen by suspicion while refusing to crown bitterness as king. The line pulls the camera back to the city—millions of lives, each with a story that might one day be told right. And then it gently brings us back to a bakery where healing wears an apron.
Why It's Special
My Only One opens like a quiet confession you didn’t expect to overhear—about a daughter, a father, and the long shadows of a past that refuses to stay buried. If you’re planning tonight’s watch, here’s a practical note up front: availability rotates. As of January 2026, aggregator data shows no active U.S. streaming, though it has streamed on KOCOWA historically and remains available in select territories (including via Prime Video channels in Japan). With KOCOWA and Viki ending their partnership in November 2025, U.S. viewers should check KOCOWA+ directly for the latest licensing updates.
What makes this series linger is how it turns a familiar family-drama setup into something gently restorative. The show treats forgiveness not as a plot device, but as a muscle—sore, trembling, and ultimately stronger because it has been used. Have you ever felt this way, when a single conversation with someone you love suddenly makes your whole life rearrange itself?
The father–daughter axis is the beating heart. Scenes between a daughter who has learned to survive by overachieving and a father carrying a burden heavier than his small smile suggest are staged with uncommon tenderness. You can feel the ache of time lost, but also the lightness of second chances quietly rushing in.
Direction leans into weekend-drama warmth without becoming syrupy. Domestic interiors glow like late-afternoon sun, and even the corporate hallways—so often cold—are framed as spaces where dignity can be recovered. The camera is patient; it waits for emotions to land instead of underlining them with flashy cuts. That patience invites you to lean forward, breathe, and feel.
Writing favors long arcs and everyday textures over shock-value twists. When secrets do surface, what hooks you isn’t the headline itself but the aftermath—how a family decides who belongs at the table. The show respects ordinary labor, from bakery counters to office cubicles, and treats small kindnesses as plot points that matter.
There’s romance, yes, and it’s irresistibly sweet, but the series never forgets that marriages are communities, not just couples. In-laws, siblings, and colleagues become mirrors and catalysts, letting love feel both personal and public. As genre, it’s a comfort watch that still asks hard questions: Who do we become when love costs us something? What does loyalty look like when the world is watching?
Finally, My Only One understands catharsis. Emotional crescendos arrive like spring after a long winter—earned, not engineered. By the time credits roll on a late episode, you’ve shared enough dinners, tears, and reconciliations to feel like family yourself. It’s the kind of long-form storytelling that makes a streaming subscription feel worth it when you’re craving a show to come home to.
Popularity & Reception
When My Only One aired from September 15, 2018 to March 17, 2019, it became a weekend ritual in Korea, drawing nation-spanning audiences who tuned in for the slow-burn healing of its characters. Late-run episodes soared into the mid-to-high 40% range nationwide, flirting with a historic 50% mark—numbers rarely seen in the 2010s and beyond.
Those ratings weren’t a fluke; they built week after week as the series neared its finale, turning living rooms into weekly reunions. Coverage at the time marveled at how the drama’s regional ratings even surpassed 50% in certain cities, a testament to its ability to cut across generations and tastes.
Awards night reflected that fervor. At the 2018 KBS Drama Awards, the production collected a shelf of honors, including Top Excellence for Choi Soo-jong, Excellence nods for UEE and Lee Jang-woo, Best Supporting Actress for Yoon Jin-yi, Best New Actor for Park Sung-hoon, Best Screenwriter for Kim Sa-kyung, and multiple Best Couple trophies—recognition that mirrored the way fans talked about the show at home.
The cultural footprint extended beyond trophies. Critics noted the show’s old-school DNA—birth secrets, in-law tensions, and intergenerational misunderstandings—yet praised the sincerity of its performances for elevating the formula. It was classic weekend TV with a modern, empathetic conscience.
Popularity even reshaped the production itself. Originally slated for 100 episodes, the series was extended to 106 because viewers simply wouldn’t let go, and later inspired a 2021 Vietnamese remake—evidence that its themes travel well beyond language and borders.
Cast & Fun Facts
The journey belongs first to UEE, who plays Kim Do-ran with a resilience that’s never brittle. She locates the character’s steel in everyday gestures—apologizing when she isn’t at fault, showing up for family who don’t always show up for her—so that when Do-ran finally draws boundaries, it feels triumphant and tender at once. Awards juries took note, and so did fans who watched her carry the series’ emotional center without grandstanding.
What’s particularly affecting is how UEE allows vulnerability to arrive in quiet beats: the half-second it takes to swallow a hurtful word, the brave smile no one in the room deserves. That calibration makes Do-ran’s love story sweeter and her family story braver—an arc you can believe in because you’ve watched her earn every inch.
As Kang Soo-il, Choi Soo-jong gives a master class in restraint. He plays a man who has rehearsed humility for decades, and you see the weight of it in his posture before he says a word. The character’s moral spine—tested by rumor and regret—anchors the show, explaining why audiences rallied to him and why he stood tall on awards night.
Choi’s gift is that he never begs for sympathy; he accepts consequence, offers care, and lets grace do the rest. That unfussy dignity resonated so strongly that he later took home a Daesang (Grand Prize) at the Korea Drama Awards, a capstone that felt like a nod to the countless fathers his character represented.
Opposite UEE, Lee Jang-woo brings Wang Dae-ryook to life with the easy charm of a first-love memory and the quiet stubbornness of a man who wants to do right. He captures the clumsy sincerity of someone learning to love with his whole family watching, which is to say: imperfectly, but all in.
Lee’s chemistry with UEE is the show’s soft glow—playful banter one minute, shoulder-to-lean-on the next—and their pairing earned one of those coveted Best Couple wins. In a drama about families, their romance becomes a promise that love can be tender without being naive.
Then there’s Yoon Jin-yi, whose turn as Jang Da-ya gives the series a needed spark—sometimes as foil, sometimes as the mirror no one asked for. She moves through pettiness, jealousy, and wounded pride with the specificity of someone who knows exactly why her character thinks she’s right, even when she’s so obviously wrong.
Yoon’s control over register—an eyebrow arched just so, a silence that lands sharper than a line—earned her Best Supporting Actress at KBS, proof that even in a sprawling ensemble, sharp characterization matters. She’s the kind of supporting player who upgrades every scene she’s in.
Park Sung-hoon makes a strong impression as Jang Go-rae, sketching a man whose choices force uncomfortable reckonings. He resists caricature, playing him as a product of pressures and blind spots rather than simple malice, which makes his beats feel human, not schematic.
That nuance helped Park score Best New Actor honors at the KBS Drama Awards—a launchpad that widened his range for future roles and cemented his reputation as an actor to watch. It’s always a thrill to see a supporting performance become a career inflection point in real time.
As Do-ran’s adoptive sister, Na Hye-mi threads a tricky needle. She must be exasperating without losing empathy, and she does it by letting insecurity peek through bravado. You understand why she pushes; you also understand why she’s so often wrong.
Her arc becomes one of gradual softening—an admission that love sometimes looks like stepping aside. In a series preoccupied with belonging, her journey is a grace note that turns sibling rivalry into something resembling sisterhood.
Behind the scenes, director Hong Seok-ku and writer Kim Sa-kyung steer the ship with steady hands: elegant blocking, unfussy compositions, and scripts that keep faith with character logic. The team even extended the series by six episodes in response to audience embrace, trusting that a longer runway would allow for truer goodbyes.
One last bit of trivia for the global fandom: the story’s resonance traveled so well it was remade in Vietnam in 2021, a reminder that the language of parents and children, regret and repair, speaks fluently across borders.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If your heart has been craving a long, healing story you can savor night after night, My Only One is that patient friend waiting with the porch light on. Consider it the kind of commitment that makes a streaming subscription feel like money well spent, especially if you’re sharing the watch with family. If you often stream on public Wi‑Fi, using a trustworthy VPN for streaming can keep your viewing private while you travel. And because 106 episodes deserve smooth nights, a stable home internet plan will make every reunion dinner and late-night confession land just right. Check KOCOWA+ for current availability, then settle in and let the show remind you how forgiveness can grow in the unlikeliest places.
Comments
Post a Comment