“My Kids Give Me a Headache”—A sprawling, big‑hearted weekend saga where one Seoul household learns that love is messier, braver, and louder than tradition
Introduction
The first time I pressed play, I didn’t expect to feel as if I’d been invited to a real family’s dinner table—chopsticks clinking, voices overlapping, secrets hovering between side dishes. But that’s exactly what “My Kids Give Me a Headache” does: it turns a living room in suburban Seoul into a mirror, asking, Have you ever loved someone so fiercely that pride and fear sounded the same? One choice—an eldest granddaughter deciding to have her baby—sends ripples through parents, uncles, aunts, and cousins until every character has to pick between reputation and relationship. It’s not flashy; it’s human, and that’s its power. Across forty weekends, the show earns its tears with the kind of everyday courage that happens when we apologize first, show up again, and learn to listen for what’s not being said. And by the time the final credits roll, you may realize you weren’t just watching a drama—you were learning how families break and mend.
Overview
Title: My Kids Give Me a Headache (무자식 상팔자)
Year: 2012–2013
Genre: Family drama, slice of life
Main Cast: Lee Soon‑jae, Kim Hae‑sook, Yoo Dong‑geun, Uhm Ji‑won, Seo Woo‑rim, Yoon Da‑hoon, Im Ye‑jin, Kyeon Mi‑ri, Jung Joon, Ha Seok‑jin, Son Na‑eun
Episodes: 40
Runtime: ~60 minutes per episode
Streaming Platform: Currently unavailable on Netflix, Hulu, Disney+, and Viki in the U.S.; Viki carries it in select regions, and availability can change, so check back periodically.
Overall Story
The drama opens with the Ahn family’s weekend rhythm: a wise but stubborn grandfather (Lee Soon‑jae), a loving grandmother (Seo Woo‑rim), and three grown sons who orbit their parents with their own households and hang‑ups. The first son, Ahn Hee‑jae (Yoo Dong‑geun), and his warm‑spined wife, Lee Ji‑ae (Kim Hae‑sook), are the axis; their eldest, So‑young (Uhm Ji‑won), is the pride of the clan—brilliant, disciplined, and the kind of daughter raised to “do everything right.” When a daughter‑in‑law stumbles upon So‑young at an outlet mall and realizes she’s heavily pregnant—and unmarried—the secret detonates silently. So‑young begs for time to tell her parents herself, but secrets in extended families don’t sit still for long. The discovery fractures the family’s self‑image: are they compassionate or conservative, protective or performative? As whispers swell, the Ahns must choose which matters more—saving face or saving each other.
Once the truth is out, the living room becomes a courtroom. Hee‑jae rages not from cruelty but from panic: the world can be unkind to single mothers, and he wanted to shield his daughter with the armor of status. Ji‑ae, whose love speaks in lunches packed and blankets folded, holds both grief and grace in the same breath. Grandfather Ho‑shik tries to rule by proverb, while Grandmother Geum‑shil listens for what’s breaking beneath the words. Have you ever watched a family argue the same point from five angles and realized everyone’s really just saying, “I’m scared”? That’s the engine here: fear of judgment, fear of change, fear that love wasn’t strong enough to keep a child from pain.
So‑young chooses to keep and raise her baby, and that decision reshapes the entire house. Cribs squeeze into corners; night‑feedings redraw sleep maps; work schedules flex and snap. The show’s brilliance lies in the way it refuses to isolate single motherhood as a “her” problem; instead, it spreads the weight across siblings and in‑laws, revealing how caregiving is both communal and contested. There are interviews where So‑young senses doors quietly closing, scenes where neighbors praise the family in public and pity them in private, and moments where the youngest cousins bond with the new baby like he’s a sunrise they get to keep. The social reality is clear: in modern Seoul, tradition and progress share a hallway, and they bump shoulders often.
Meanwhile, the second son’s household becomes the test lab for marriage under pressure. Ahn Hee‑myung (Song Seung‑hwan) tries to mediate between a principled wife, Ji Yoo‑jung (Im Ye‑jin), and his own mother’s expectations, and ends up pleasing no one. Their son, Dae‑gi (Jung Joon), flounders between ambition and inertia, feeling the invisible yardstick of his cousins’ achievements. Fights that begin over laundry or spending limits are really about respect and roles; you’ll recognize the cadence if you’ve ever argued at 11 p.m. about “nothing” and known it meant “everything.” In practical terms, the couple debates money constantly: rising rent, that gnawing thought about family health insurance, and whether a mortgage refinance would buy them breathing room or borrow tomorrow’s stress. Domestic economics become character psychology, and the drama never treats them as background noise.
The third son, Hee‑gyu (Yoon Da‑hoon), and his spirited wife Shin Sae‑rom (Kyeon Mi‑ri) provide both comedy and candor. They present as the most modern—quick to tease, quicker to forgive—but when So‑young’s baby arrives, even they reveal blind spots about the “right” order of life. Sae‑rom, who first uncovered the secret, wrestles with guilt over how it came out; her path becomes one of learning that truth without tenderness can still bruise. Their aunty‑nibling bond with the baby softens edges; they turn diaper duty into a variety show, cracking jokes that land like lifelines during heavier hours. Through them, the series reminds us that laughter isn’t a side‑dish; it’s protein for relationships.
As weeks pass, the drama widens to include the unseen father, not as a villain to boo but as a mirror for So‑young’s growth. A brief, complicated meeting makes clear he’s not ready for responsibility, and the show wisely pivots: it’s not about chasing a reluctant partner but about building a village. So‑young returns to her own ambitions, now re‑negotiated: how to be excellent without auditioning for worthiness. She learns to ask for help without apology, and though the world still gossips, her family begins to function not as her judge and jury but as her crew. Have you ever learned that asking for help is a way to love the people who want to show up? That lesson glows here.
The parents’ arc unfolds in tandem. Hee‑jae, who once believed authority equals love, learns that presence is louder. He starts with grand, controlling gestures and ends with small, consistent ones: early‑morning walks with the stroller, quiet conversations at the kitchen sink. Ji‑ae, so often the family’s emotional shock‑absorber, finally tells the truth about her own exhaustion and dreams; it doesn’t break the home—it balances it. They also face the math of middle age: tuition looming for younger kids, aging bodies, and the sober talk of retirement planning they’ve long postponed. When they sit with an insurance agent for life insurance quotes, the conversation stops being about numbers and becomes about legacy: What do we leave behind besides lectures?
Workplace and neighborhood scenes add the sociocultural texture that makes the show feel lived‑in. At the office, colleagues oscillate between soft support and weaponized pity; HR slogans about “family‑friendly policy” crumble against real‑life scheduling needs. In the neighborhood, aunties praise the baby one minute and warn their daughters the next. The script never gets preachy—it simply places characters in rooms where culture lives: the church hall, the market, the after‑work pojangmacha. And by refusing to hand out shiny “good person” badges, the drama lets growth feel earned.
A late‑season health scare for a beloved elder compresses the family’s timeline and priorities. Grandfather’s authority softens into mentorship; grandmother’s quiet courage becomes the home’s heartbeat. The cousins, once background noise, step forward as a new generation that sees fewer taboos and more possibilities. In a beautifully staged night scene, everyone gathers to argue and then to eat; it’s chaos and communion, tears and tteok. The message lands without a sermon: families are not machines you fix; they’re gardens you tend.
By the finale, apologies have been offered and accepted imperfectly, which is to say honestly. So‑young names her son with intention, and the baby’s first tottering steps become a visual thesis: forward is forward. Couples recommit, not to spotless roles but to flexible kindness. And the elders—who began with mottos—end with questions, an act of love disguised as humility. The credits don’t promise a fairy tale; they promise a family willing to try again tomorrow, which, to me, is the braver ending.
Highlight Moments
Episode 1 The outlet mall reveal snaps the season into focus. In a fluorescently lit restroom, Sae‑rom recognizes So‑young’s rounded belly and, for a breathless beat, both women are simply two people caught between fear and love. The camera lingers on their hands—one reaching, one retreating—before the secret becomes a new center of gravity. The ride home is a masterclass in unsaid words. By the time So‑young asks for a little time, you already know time is a luxury families rarely grant. It’s a soft opening that still lands like a drum.
Episode 8 The living‑room “trial” explodes. Hee‑jae’s anger is the kind that sounds like scolding but looks like shaking hands; Ji‑ae stands as both witness and defense, and grandfather’s proverbs can’t contain the modern mess. So‑young doesn’t beg—she states: “I’m keeping my child.” The silence that follows is not empty; it’s a battlefield clearing in which everyone sees who they are. You feel generations scraping against one another and, somehow, making a spark instead of a fire.
Episode 12 Co‑parenting by committee takes shape. Night feedings rotate, cousins argue about lullabies, and Sae‑rom brings comic relief by livestreaming (to no one) her “expert” swaddling class. In between jokes, the series slips in the ledger of real life: pediatric visits, family health insurance paperwork, and the unexpected cost of love measured in hours given up. A small scene—Hee‑jae learning the baby’s nap cues—changes him more than any speech. It’s also the first time the house looks like a home again.
Episode 20 Money becomes the monster under the bed. Hee‑myung and Ji Yoo‑jung consider a mortgage refinance as bills stack up, turning spreadsheets into stress‑maps. Their argument isn’t about yen or won; it’s about whose sacrifices have been seen. When they finally agree to cut luxuries and keep counseling, the choice feels like a victory for the marriage, not the math. The show keeps proving that practicality is its own kind of romance.
Episode 28 The father’s brief reappearance. He doesn’t arrive with flowers or a proposal; he arrives with confusion, a half‑formed apology, and the realism of someone who still loves himself most. So‑young listens, not to be persuaded but to put a period at the end of that story. She chooses clarity over closure, and it’s quietly triumphant. The family, watching from the margins, finally stops bracing for a reunion that would have cost her too much.
Episode 40 (Finale) A dawn walk with a stroller braids every theme together. Hee‑jae, once volcanic, is now steady; Ji‑ae, once silent, requests a weekend off for herself; cousins race ahead and circle back; the elders keep pace in their own rhythm. Over breakfast, the family argues, laughs, and plans, as if promising to keep learning in public. The last group photo is imperfectly framed—someone’s blinking, someone’s mid‑laugh—and that’s exactly why it feels true.
Memorable Lines
“If love is only pride, it’s not love—it’s a mask.” – Lee Ji‑ae, Episode 8 Said after she watches her husband thunder through the living‑room “trial,” this line reframes the entire conflict. Ji‑ae has spent years keeping the peace, but here she draws a boundary with tenderness. Emotionally, it’s the moment she chooses honesty over harmony, knowing the cost. It pushes Hee‑jae to examine whether his outrage is protection or vanity, and it nudges the family toward empathy over image.
“I can carry a baby and a dream. I just need both hands free.” – Ahn So‑young, Episode 12 Exhausted but clear‑eyed, So‑young says this while dividing night‑duty and mapping her return to work. The sentence shifts single motherhood from stigma to strategy. It also serves as a love note to the aunties and cousins who volunteer to be the “extra hands.” Thematically, it announces the show’s thesis: dreams don’t die when families show up.
“Children don’t owe us success; they owe us truth.” – Ahn Ho‑shik, Episode 20 The patriarch softens, surprising everyone, during a heated dinner about money and expectations. His words carry the weight of decades, and you can see Hee‑jae hear his own father for the first time. The line loosens the family’s grip on appearances, allowing younger members to redefine achievement. It also gives the elders a path from authority to accompaniment.
“I thought strength meant never asking. Turns out, it means asking before I break.” – Ji Yoo‑jung, Episode 22 In a quiet bedroom scene, she admits she can’t out‑organize the storm alone. The confession rewrites her marriage from a ledger of chores to a collaboration of care. It’s a turning point for Dae‑gi too, who stops measuring his worth against his cousins and starts investing in the home he’s got. The ripple effect is a kinder household where vulnerability isn’t punished.
“When you take a picture, don’t say ‘cheese.’ Say the name of who you’re becoming.” – Grandmother Geum‑shil, Episode 40 Playful and profound, this grandmotherly wisdom lands during the finale photo. It captures the series’ refusal to chase perfection; growth, not gloss, is the goal. The line also blesses every messy, mending heart at that breakfast table, including So‑young’s—who smiles and whispers her son’s name. If you need a drama that will make you feel seen and then send you back to your own people a little softer, “My Kids Give Me a Headache” is the warm, steady hand you’ve been waiting to hold.
Why It's Special
There’s a particular kind of hush that falls over a house when everyone who loves and frustrates you most is under the same roof. My Kids Give Me a Headache captures that hush—and the storm that follows—with a tenderness that feels startlingly intimate. Set across three generations of the Ahn family, the series aired on JTBC from October 27, 2012 to March 17, 2013, ultimately running 40 episodes. As of February 11, 2026, availability varies by region: it streams on TVING in Korea and appears on select regional platforms like Rakuten Viki, while it’s currently not listed on major U.S. streamers; availability can change, so always double‑check your preferred guide before watching. Have you ever felt this way—equal parts cherished and overwhelmed by family?
What makes the show linger is how it lets seemingly small domestic moments bloom into life‑defining choices. A quiet kitchen conversation, a closed bedroom door, a late‑night knock—these aren’t plot devices but living textures. You don’t watch the Ahn family so much as you move in with them for a while, learning the rhythms of their mealtimes, misunderstandings, and hard‑won reconciliations.
The writing—by veteran screenwriter Kim Soo‑hyun—has that rare grace of speaking to both elders and adult children in their own languages. She doesn’t preach; she listens, and then turns listening into drama. Critics in Korea noted how the series’ measured storytelling redefined what a cable family drama could do, without resorting to sensationalism or shortcuts.
Director Jung Eul‑young’s touch is equally crucial. He frames bustling living rooms and alleyway chats like ensemble stage pieces, where everyone gets a beat and nobody steals the show for long. The camera never gawks at conflict; it sits with it, inviting us to breathe through the discomfort the way family members must when there’s nowhere to run.
Emotionally, the series is a balm for anyone who has felt mislabeled by their own kin. It is especially piercing in how it treats single motherhood and the weight of expectations on firstborns and daughters‑in‑law, not as hot‑button topics but as inherited stories that can be rewritten—slowly, stubbornly, lovingly.
Genre‑wise, this is a family saga laced with romance, workplace pressures, and the comedy of everyday life. The show’s humor is gentle, never undercutting pain, and its conflicts are grounded in the kind of choices—marriage, career, caregiving—that echo for decades. When the eldest granddaughter’s path collides with tradition, the drama asks: What does love look like when we stop trying to fix one another and start trying to understand?
Pacing matters here. With 40 episodes, the show earns every reconciliation and relapse. Arcs breathe. Secondary characters aren’t narrative furniture; they’re people whose compromises and dreams tug at the main plot, widening the definition of “family” one episode at a time.
Perhaps that’s why watching can feel a little like guided reflection. Scenes land with the clarity of a letter you’ve long avoided writing. If you’ve ever wished a drama could feel like a heart‑to‑heart and a Sunday dinner, My Kids Give Me a Headache delivers—honest, nourishing, and, in the best way, a touch like online therapy you didn’t know you needed.
Popularity & Reception
When it first aired, My Kids Give Me a Headache didn’t simply find an audience—it reshaped expectations for cable dramas. On February 24, 2013, it notched a 10.71% nationwide rating, an extraordinary figure for pay TV at the time, and proof that patient, character‑first storytelling could dominate a weekend timeslot.
The show’s climb was steady rather than flashy. Earlier that winter it had already broken records previously held by Reply 1997; by late February it was the show to beat, with critics calling it a “game‑changer” that turned JTBC into a real contender. Those numbers weren’t a fluke—they reflected viewers choosing to spend their precious evenings with a family that felt like their own.
Success bred more story. Mid‑run, producers confirmed an extension—ultimately bringing the series to a 40‑episode finish—citing both ratings momentum and the creative team’s desire to add layers rather than shock twists. That decision shows in the drama’s final stretch, which deepens relationships instead of sprinting to tie bows.
Internationally, the fandom grew through word‑of‑mouth and longform recaps that praised its humane scale. On English‑language forums and recap sites, viewers swapped favorite mealtime speeches and debated the show’s gentler approach to intergenerational conflict, crediting it with expanding what non‑Korean audiences expected from “family drama.”
In hindsight, the series stands as one of JTBC’s foundational hits of the 2010s, a forerunner to later juggernauts. It continues to appear on lists tracking the network’s landmark ratings milestones, not merely as a number but as a turning point—proof that a cable family drama could command both attention and affection.
Cast & Fun Facts
Lee Soon‑jae anchors the series as patriarch Ahn Ho‑shik, a man whose gruff pronouncements conceal an almost childlike longing to keep his family intact. His scenes rarely explode; they soften. A raised eyebrow at the dinner table, a stubborn silence at the doorway—Lee turns micro‑gestures into maps of a lifetime of responsibility. It’s a masterclass in how to play “traditional” without turning rigid.
What’s riveting is how Lee’s Ho‑shik learns to listen. The role asks an icon of Korean screen acting to interrogate the very authority he often embodies. Watching him negotiate pride and love—especially when the family’s women challenge old rules—becomes one of the show’s quiet thrills, and a touchstone for fathers and grandfathers who recognize themselves in his slow, dignified growth.
Kim Hae‑sook brings immeasurable warmth as Lee Ji‑ae, a first daughter‑in‑law whose domestic genius often disguises her own wants. She’s the person who makes sure there’s soup on the stove and a seat for the latecomer—and who notices when the one who arrives earliest looks most tired. Kim gives us the beauty of a caretaker who learns to name her needs.
Across the run, Kim charts Ji‑ae’s evolution from peacemaker to truth‑teller. When her patience finally includes herself, those scenes resonate like a bell through the family. It’s the kind of layered, lived‑in performance that reminds you why Kim Hae‑sook is so beloved: she never plays “saint,” only a woman choosing generosity again and again, until she remembers to extend it inward.
Yoo Dong‑geun plays first son Ahn Hee‑jae, a man orbiting between duty to his parents and responsibility to his own household. Yoo’s presence is steady, dignified, and haunted by the sense that every decision disappoints someone. When he falters, it’s not melodrama—it’s the exhaustion of a son who never learned how to be asked what he wants.
That interior struggle becomes the spine of several late‑series confrontations. Yoo lets Hee‑jae’s defenses crack not with shouting but with weary honesty, allowing other family members to step toward him rather than away. It’s a performance built on restraint, which makes every small apology, every awkward hug, feel monumental.
Uhm Ji‑won is incandescent as Ahn So‑young, the eldest granddaughter whose future as a promising judge collides with the reality of single motherhood. Uhm refuses the easy binary of “rebel” or “victim”; instead she plays a woman who insists on defining herself beyond either label. Her courtroom composure, her private tremors, her fierce tenderness with her child—each registers with startling clarity.
Behind the scenes, Uhm’s casting drew attention even before premiere, with early reporting noting the fresh energy she’d bring to Kim Soo‑hyun’s universe. On screen, it’s easy to see why: she turns So‑young’s choices into a conversation with the audience about ambition, shame, and the right to rewrite your story.
One more joy for K‑pop fans: Apink’s Son Na‑eun appears as Oh Soo‑mi, a bright, resilient teen whose optimism offers grace notes throughout the family’s heavier beats. Her subplot—juggling school, work, and a complicated past—mirrors the drama’s belief that even the youngest members of a clan carry histories worth honoring.
Finally, a word about the creative helm: director Jung Eul‑young and writer Kim Soo‑hyun work in rare harmony. Their collaboration shaped a series that earned record‑setting cable ratings and critical admiration for its humane scope—proof that when craft serves character, audiences follow.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you crave a drama that understands why family can be both a sanctuary and a storm, My Kids Give Me a Headache deserves a place on your weekend couch. As you compare the best streaming service for your household, keep in mind that availability can shift—check your guide, and if needed, consider the best VPN for streaming to access legal, region‑specific platforms. And when certain episodes stir up old feelings, give yourself grace; sometimes a story like this nudges us toward conversations we’ve delayed, the kind you might even bring to online therapy to unpack with care. Most of all, let this family’s stumbles and small victories remind you that love, in all its messy forms, is worth the work.
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