“Can We Get Married?”—A bracing, modern romance that tests love against family, money, and the meaning of happily ever after
Introduction
The first time Hye Yoon asks, “Can we really do this?” I felt that lump of fear and hope collide in my own chest. Have you ever loved someone so much that the logistics started to feel like enemies—budgets, in‑laws, apartments, ceremonies, all of it pressing down on your private joy? This drama welcomes us into that storm with open arms and no filters, letting awkward dinners, whispered phone calls, and midnight apologies reveal what engagement actually feels like. I kept pausing episodes just to breathe, then pressing play because I needed to see whether love could hold under the weight of everyone else’s expectations. By the time the parents start negotiating deposits and the best friends cross emotional lines, you’ll be asking yourself where the boundary ends between “our marriage” and “our families’ marriage.” And then, quietly, you’ll realize why watching these characters stumble forward is its own kind of comfort.
Overview
Title: Can We Get Married? (우리가 결혼할 수 있을까)
Year: 2012–2013
Genre: Romance, Family, Drama
Main Cast: Jung So‑min, Sung Joon, Lee Mi‑sook, Kim Young‑kwang, Han Groo, Jung Ae‑yeon, Kim Sung‑min
Episodes: 20
Runtime: Approximately 56–60 minutes per episode
Streaming Platform: Viki
Overall Story
From the opening minutes, Can We Get Married? sets a ticking clock: 100 days until the wedding of Hye Yoon, a grounded, goal‑oriented woman, and Jung Hoon, a warm, sharp‑tongued salaryman who adores her. The first wave is bliss—secret smiles, shared convenience‑store snacks, a breathless certainty that everything hard will be worth it. Then their families enter the room. Hye Yoon’s mother, Deul Ja, a self‑made cosmetics shop owner, dreams of marrying her daughter into security, and “security” means prestige, savings, and a spotless family history. Jung Hoon’s mother, Eun‑kyung, gentler but just as proud, bristles at being evaluated like a résumé. Suddenly, love has terms and conditions, and the couple’s bright future flickers as elders pick apart banquet halls, guest lists, and the dreaded apartment deposit.
The deposit becomes a symbol—of class, of pride, of whether a son‑in‑law’s promise counts the same as a doctor’s salary. I could feel the air thin at those dinner tables where numbers become daggers and wedding planning doubles as a financial audit. Have you been there, doing mental math while your heart begs for a simpler life? Jung Hoon wants to protect Hye Yoon from anxiety and humiliation, especially when Deul Ja treats him like a project to “upgrade.” Hye Yoon, caught between gratitude to a mother who sacrificed everything and loyalty to the man she chose, starts speaking in half‑truths and white lies that accumulate like dust.
Running parallel is the most dangerously intimate friendship: Dong‑bi and Ki‑joong. She is Hye Yoon’s ride‑or‑die bestie—funny, impulsive, tougher than she looks—and he’s Jung Hoon’s wealthy cousin, trained from childhood to equate marriage with mergers. They’ve loved each other for years, but he insists on keeping things “casual” to appease a status‑obsessed mother. Watching Dong‑bi finally ask for a real future and Ki‑joong flinch is excruciating because it’s so ordinary; how many relationships stall because one person fears the cost of choosing publicly? When Ki‑joong strays toward a strategic engagement with someone “suitable,” it isn’t just betrayal—it’s capitulation to a system that mistakes weddings for balance sheets.
Then there’s Hye Jin, Hye Yoon’s older sister, intertwined with the charismatic surgeon Do‑hyun. Their storyline peels back another layer: what happens after the aisle, when resentment, secrecy, and professional pressure curdle romance into routine? The show doesn’t sensationalize; instead it lingers on the shame of being seen as a “good wife” while feeling utterly alone. Hye Jin’s choices ripple outward, forcing Deul Ja to confront the limits of control—she can stage‑manage engagements, but she cannot script happiness. In those scenes, the drama becomes a mirror for any family that hides its fractures behind glossy photos.
The most searing conflicts erupt not in grand betrayals but in micro‑moments: a mother counting cash envelopes like she’s measuring a son‑in‑law’s worth; a father quietly offering to co‑sign a lease he can’t afford; a couple calculating whether to invite an estranged relative because one more table might mean one less month of savings. If you’ve ever googled “mortgage rates” while planning a wedding or debated a “prenup attorney” over late‑night takeout, you’ll recognize the fatigue and the tenderness. The show nods at realities like jeonse deposits, bridal gift negotiations, and the social pressure to perform prosperity. It’s not cynical; it’s honest about how money, culture, and pride braid together.
Under that pressure, Hye Yoon and Jung Hoon fracture. Arguments start about flower budgets and end with, “Do you respect me?” Words harden. He stays out drinking with Dong‑bi and mutual friends, where catharsis blurs into mistake; she clings harder to plans because plans feel safer than people. The hurt between them becomes communal—friends take sides, parents keep score, and every dinner turns into cross‑examination. Have you noticed how a relationship’s most private wounds become public when elders weigh in?
As days tick down, small mercies arrive. Eun‑kyung defends Jung Hoon not as an “asset” but as her son; Deul Ja’s armor cracks when she sees how her fierce love can look like disdain. Ki‑joong, faced with a life that photographs well but feels empty, starts unlearning the status playbook his mother handed him. Dong‑bi chooses her own dignity—if he won’t choose her out loud, she’ll choose herself. The drama excels here: no magical fixes, just people learning to apologize without caveats.
One thing I appreciated deeply is the texture of Seoul the show captures: crowded marketplaces, coffee shops that double as refuge and confessional, motorbike clubs where middle‑aged adults remember who they were before they were parents. Aunt Deul‑rae’s late‑blooming romance with twice‑divorced Min‑ho injects humor and a bracing thesis: happiness favors the brave, not the perfect. Their banter—sometimes reckless, often wise—becomes a balm for the younger couples who confuse compatibility with compliance.
The final arc refuses fairy dust. Contracts are renegotiated, not erased. Jung Hoon learns that loving Hye Yoon means loving her mother too, not as a gatekeeper but as the history that built her. Hye Yoon learns that partnership means letting go of a “perfect wedding” if it bruises the person she’s marrying. There’s even a practical wink at real‑world tools couples use—everything from “wedding insurance” for mishaps to “relationship counseling” before vows—because forever, in this universe, is something you build with both heart and homework.
When the day comes, it’s not the banquet that moves you; it’s the small, ordinary braveries: showing up, saying “I’m sorry,” choosing each other over appearances. Ki‑joong and Dong‑bi’s story doesn’t fold neatly into a single ceremony; it evolves into a commitment defined by them, not by a seating chart. Hye Jin confronts the life she curated for others and starts making choices that answer to her own integrity. And Deul Ja—fierce, flawed, unforgettable—learns that letting go is a kind of love few parents ever master.
By the end, Can We Get Married? answers its title less with a wedding than with a method: communicate, recalibrate, forgive, repeat. It’s tender enough to make you root for every couple, and unsentimental enough to warn you that love without growth is just nostalgia. Have you ever needed a drama to tell you the truth gently? This one does, and it leaves you believing that choosing each other—loudly, daily, imperfectly—is the most romantic gesture of all. And that’s why, credits rolling, I sat still for a while, grateful for a love story that respects real life.
Highlight Moments
Episode 1 The proposal is modest and sincere, followed by the 100‑day plan that feels like a wish and a dare. The first celebratory dinner collapses when Deul Ja starts benchmarking Jung Hoon against “ideal” son‑in‑laws, casually dropping numbers like grenades. Hye Yoon laughs it off at the table and cries in the kitchen—the show’s thesis in one scene. Jung Hoon promises he’ll “make it work,” but the camera lingers on his clenched jaw, hinting at the pride he’ll have to swallow. It’s romance with receipts, and the bill is already on the table.
Episode 4 A venue tour turns into an audit of the couple’s entire future—who pays the deposit, whose name goes on the lease, and whether “love” should come with collateral. Eun‑kyung steps up for her son, drawing a line between care and condescension, and the mothers’ first cold war begins. Hye Yoon tries to keep peace by overpromising, while Jung Hoon tries to keep dignity by under‑sharing, and both strategies backfire. The episode quietly raises practical questions viewers know well: Do you combine accounts? Do you involve a prenup attorney? Or do you trust that goodwill will outlast the invoices?
Episode 7 Dong‑bi finally says the thing women are taught to swallow: “I want marriage, not just memories.” Ki‑joong dodges with pretty words and a business‑savvy engagement elsewhere, and Dong‑bi chooses herself rather than orbit a man afraid to choose her. Their breakup is a gut punch because it isn’t explosive; it’s administrative, the kind families prefer because it generates fewer whispers. Later, alone, Ki‑joong realizes that a relationship without risk is just PR. His mother calls it maturity; the episode calls it surrender.
Episode 10 Under stress, lines blur. Jung Hoon, drunk and hurting, leans on Dong‑bi as a friend, and the boundary slips—one kiss that means nothing to him and everything to everyone else. Hye Yoon finds out in the worst possible way, and the betrayal metastasizes—not just jealousy, but a sense that her safe place no longer exists. The writers handle it with restraint: no screaming in hallways, just awkward silences and polite lies that feel colder than rage. The fallout isolates all three, and for once, even the parents can’t fix it.
Episode 15 Aunt Deul‑rae and Min‑ho steal the episode, proving that grown‑up love can be reckless in the best way. She takes a risk—on a motorbike, on a man with history, on a future not approved by anyone—and becomes a lighthouse for the younger ones. Meanwhile, Hye Jin confronts what “being a good wife” has cost her, and the show gives space to the grief of mid‑marriage disillusionment. It’s a generous hour about second chances, negotiated on adult terms.
Episode 20 Final decisions, not just finales. Deul Ja releases her grip; Eun‑kyung admits her son isn’t marrying into a résumé but a family. Hye Yoon and Jung Hoon strip the wedding back to what they can carry without resenting each other tomorrow. Ki‑joong arrives not with a ring first but with humility, asking Dong‑bi to build a life defined by them, not by invitations. The last minutes are joy without spectacle—earned, specific, and beautifully human.
Memorable Lines
“I don’t want a perfect wedding. I want a marriage that survives tomorrow.” – Hye Yoon, Episode 4 Said after a brutal budget meeting, it reframes what the series has been arguing from the start. She rejects performance in favor of durability, a pivot that pulls her out of her mother’s scripts. It also signals to Jung Hoon that she sees his worth beyond numbers, planting a seed for reconciliation when pride later gets in the way.
“If love is a ledger, I’m done keeping score.” – Jung Hoon, Episode 8 After being measured by income, housing, and pedigree, he finally names the quiet humiliation he’s been carrying. The line isn’t a mic‑drop; it’s exhausted honesty, an invitation to start talking like partners instead of contestants. It marks the moment he stops trying to “win” Deul Ja and starts trying to understand her daughter. The shift lowers the heat and raises the intimacy.
“You can always come back to me—even if you think it’s too late.” – Dong‑bi, Episode 9 She says it to Ki‑joong in a weak moment, then spends the rest of the series learning to stop being everyone’s soft landing. The promise captures her longing and her lack of boundaries all at once. Watching her later revise this sentence—choosing herself first—becomes one of the show’s most satisfying arcs. It’s a love story turning into a self‑respect story in real time.
“Children aren’t investments. They’re choices we keep making.” – Deul Ja, Episode 16 When she finally softens, the woman who once treated matchmaking like asset management articulates the series’ core lesson. It’s an apology without the word “sorry,” but it lands like one. In that pivot, she becomes not an obstacle but a protector who understands that control and care are not synonyms.
“Let’s build something we can afford to forgive.” – Jung Hoon, Episode 20 On the day that matters, he proposes a philosophy, not just a ceremony: choose budgets that don’t break spirits, words that can be taken back, and rituals that mean more than they cost. It’s romance for adults who have googled wedding insurance and sat through couples therapy and still want forever. If you’ve ever wondered whether love can outlast the noise of everyone else’s opinion, press play and let this drama show you how it does.
Why It's Special
On a quiet weeknight, few things feel better than curling up with a drama that understands how love actually collides with family, money, and pride. Can We Get Married? slips into that space with lived‑in warmth and candor. You can currently stream it on Viki with English subtitles; it also appears on Netflix in select regions and is listed in the Apple TV app, so it’s easy to discover no matter where you are.
The story begins with a simple premise: two people are engaged, and the clock ticks down 100 days to their wedding. What elevates it is how intimately the series invites us to the dinner tables, car rides, and hallway stand‑offs where real relationships bend and sometimes break. Every scene feels like a conversation you’ve overheard—or lived through.
Instead of grand gestures, the show trades in small truths. A mother sharpens a casual remark into a blade. A boyfriend hesitates for half a second too long. Have you ever felt this way—caught between the person you chose and the family that raised you? The tone leans bittersweet, yet it never loses a streak of cozy, observational humor.
The writing favors dialogue that sounds unpolished and real, so fights escalate the way they do in life: over old receipts and unhealed history. Each couple’s issue—class anxiety, job insecurity, fear of commitment—is sketched with empathetic detail, then cross‑stitched together to show how love is negotiated, not just declared.
Direction matters in a drama like this, and you can feel a steady, confident hand in the way the camera lingers on silences as much as speeches. Meals, meetings, and make‑ups are framed like x‑rays of modern Korean family life—universal enough that global audiences nod in recognition.
Can We Get Married? also blends genres with a surprising lightness. It’s a romantic comedy on paper, a family drama in mood, and a slice‑of‑life study at heart. That blend means a single episode can make you laugh at the messiness of in‑laws and then, ten minutes later, hold your breath as a relationship teeters on a single word.
What sticks when the credits roll is its emotional honesty. The show suggests that weddings are logistics, but marriages are languages—learned slowly, apologized for often, and spoken best when two people grow at the same pace. It’s tender, a little raw, and wonderfully relatable.
Popularity & Reception
When it first aired on JTBC from October 29, 2012 to January 1, 2013, Can We Get Married? found a devoted cable audience who appreciated its grounded take on love and family. Viewers praised it for feeling “close to home,” a reputation that’s only grown with time as new audiences discover it on streaming platforms.
Its resonance traveled well beyond Korea. The series was broadcast internationally in countries like Japan, Thailand, Vietnam, and Chile—evidence that the anxieties of proposing, parenting, and planning a future translate across cultures.
In the streaming era, the drama enjoys the afterglow of word‑of‑mouth. On Viki, thousands of community reviews celebrate its unvarnished conversations and layered mothers—often calling it a comfort rewatch that still stings in the right places.
Critics also noticed the craft behind the warmth. Ha Myung‑hee’s screenplay earned a nomination at the 49th Baeksang Arts Awards, a nod that mirrors how tightly the show knits humor into heartbreak without slipping into melodrama.
Among longtime K‑drama fans, the series is frequently recommended to viewers who loved the grounded romance and domestic textures that director Kim Yoon‑cheol became known for, drawing a line of affinity that helps new audiences find it today.
Cast & Fun Facts
Jung So‑min anchors the series as Hye‑yoon, a pragmatic woman who thinks she knows exactly what a “good life” looks like—until every assumption is pressure‑tested. Jung plays her like a kaleidoscope: composed at brunch, vulnerable in the taxi home, and steely when the ring suddenly feels heavy. You can read micro‑shifts in her eyes as she measures a partner’s promise against a parent’s warning.
In two of the show’s most affecting threads, Jung lets silence do the talking. She’ll take a breath, choose diplomacy over eruption, and you feel the work it takes to be kind when you’re terrified. That restraint turns Hye‑yoon’s journey—from checklist love to courageous love—into one of the series’ quiet triumphs.
Sung Joon is Jung‑hoon, the “ordinary salaryman” whose ordinariness hides a moral steadiness that romance dramas often sidestep. He’s not flashy; he shows up. Sung Joon’s gift is understatement—awkward half‑smiles, words that arrive late but land true—so when he finally articulates what he wants, it hits like a drumbeat.
What makes Jung‑hoon compelling is not perfection but growth. Across family showdowns and money talks, Sung Joon shows a man learning that love isn’t only about protection; it’s about participation. He doesn’t slay dragons; he learns to split the rent of responsibility—and the scenes where he chooses courage over comfort are deeply satisfying.
Lee Mi‑sook gives Deul‑ja, the formidable mother, both iron and ache. It would’ve been easy to play her as a meddling stereotype; instead, Lee sculpts a woman forged by disappointment who mistakes control for care. Her one‑liners are deliciously sharp, but the moments that linger are the ones where her armor slips.
As the wedding nears, Deul‑ja’s arc becomes a mirror for anyone raised to equate security with status. Lee Mi‑sook guides that transformation with precision, reminding us that even the “antagonists” of our lives are often just parents who are afraid. Watching her learn the difference between protecting a daughter and possessing a future is one of the show’s quiet joys.
Kim Young‑kwang plays Ki‑joong, a man cushioned by privilege who doesn’t realize how little he’s examined his own desires. Kim threads arrogance with vulnerability, making Ki‑joong both frustrating and oddly sympathetic. In scenes where his certainty unravels, he finds the human pulse beneath the swagger.
Opposite him, his relationship tests whether love can survive when timing, class, and pride refuse to cooperate. Kim Young‑kwang makes Ki‑joong’s halting steps toward accountability feel earned, turning a secondary romance into a candid study of how we unlearn bad habits to make space for better love.
Han Groo lights up the screen as Dong‑bi, a woman who knows what she won’t compromise even when her heart begs her to. Han plays independence not as cool detachment but as hard‑won clarity, giving Dong‑bi a lyrical mix of bravery and bruises.
Her arc—tender, thorny, and true—pairs crackling banter with decisions that cost something. Han Groo’s chemistry with Kim Young‑kwang turns their storyline into a parallel thesis on modern commitment: love is not a prize you win; it’s a practice you choose.
Behind the scenes, director Kim Yoon‑cheol and writer Ha Myung‑hee shape the show’s heartbeat. Kim, celebrated for crafting everyday romances with emotional bite, brings a lived‑in visual grammar to kitchens and cafes; Ha’s script—later recognized with a Baeksang nomination—finds music in ordinary conversation, proving that the most cinematic thing in life might be two people telling the truth at last.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’ve ever negotiated love across a noisy dinner table, Can We Get Married? will feel like a hand on your shoulder and a nudge toward honesty. Start it wherever you stream—Viki is a great bet, and if you travel often, pairing your Netflix subscription with the best VPN for streaming can help you stay connected securely while on the road. Whether you watch solo or fold it into your streaming TV packages for a family night, this drama rewards attention with empathy. Let it remind you that saying “I do” is really just the first fluent sentence in a language you’ll keep learning together.
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