I've always hated that sound—the clinking of glasses in a too-silent house. It's never meant celebration in our home. Just another night Dad spent staring at nothing, nursing a drink like it could make him forget. Like it could bring her back.
It started twelve years ago. I was twelve. Small, curious, stupidly hopeful.
That night, I had crept down the stairs, barefoot, the wood creaking under each step. I wasn't supposed to be awake, but their voices had grown too loud—too sharp.
"You said you were at your sister's, Ji-won!" Dad's voice had cracked, somewhere between fury and despair.
"I was—!" she tried, but he cut her off with a shaky breath.
"Don't lie to me! You were with him. I saw you. The restaurant, corner table. Laughing. Like we never existed."
From the gap in the staircase railing, I saw her back stiffen. My mom, Ji-won Geum, dressed in her ivory blouse and slacks, standing frozen like she wasn't just caught but unraveling.
I couldn't hear what she said next—her voice had dropped. But I saw it all. The way Dad's shoulders sagged. The way his hand trembled as he poured himself another glass.
Then she turned.
And she saw me.
My breath hitched. I wanted to run, but I couldn't. I was just... stuck.
"Yul," she whispered, walking toward me.
I remember how warm her hand felt on my cheek. "I'm sorry," she said. "You weren't supposed to see this."
She didn't explain. Didn't try to defend herself. She just kissed my forehead, the kind of kiss that says goodbye without saying it.
The next morning, she was gone.
No note. No message. No hug. Nothing.
Just her empty side of the closet and the silence she left behind.
For weeks, I waited for her to come back. Every doorbell, every footstep outside—I thought it might be her. But it never was.
Dad never talked about it. He just drank. Quietly. Sometimes crying, always pretending he wasn't.
I hated how broken he looked.
I hated her more.
She left us. For another man. After all that talk about family, about sticking together, she just left.
The worst part? I was her favorite. We were close—closer than I ever was with Dad. She taught me to bake cookies, ironed my uniforms, snuck me sweets when Dad said no.
And then she just left like none of that mattered.
After that, I decided love was a joke. A cruel one. People say it's warm and happy and worth it.
All I ever saw was it tearing people apart.
When Dad got promoted and Grandpa decided to transferred him to Paris to manage our expanded branch there, I followed. I buried myself in studies, fashion, business, anything that wasn't about emotions. I stopped answering Mom's calls when I reached middle school. She messaged me every birthday. I deleted them without reading.
She made her choice. So I made mine.
And now?
Now she walks into my life like nothing happened. Like she didn't tear our family in half.
"Yul," she had said yesterday, smiling nervously, holding Bo-ra's hands like they were old friends.
The woman Bo-ra helped at the department store—of course it had to be my mother. Life has a twisted sense of humor.
I didn't say anything. I couldn't. My throat had closed up, my body frozen.
Bo-ra looked between us like she'd just connected the dots. Her eyes widened.
"She didn't know," Bo-ra said softly to me later that night, when Mom had left and the door finally closed.
"She didn't know who I was to you, Yul. I just helped her because she looked lost and sad."
I nodded stiffly.
She continued, "She seemed so... lonely. She told me she used to be a terrible mom. That she had hurt someone she loved and wished she could undo it."
I let out a bitter laugh. "Touching."
"Yul," Bo-ra said, gently. "Maybe she's trying to make things right."
I scoffed. "People like her don't get redemption arcs."
She frowned, stepping closer. "You don't have to forgive her. But... maybe you should let yourself feel something other than hate."
"Why?" I snapped. "So she can break me again?"
Bo-ra didn't say anything. She just reached out and squeezed my hand.
And I hated that I felt something stir in my chest—guilt? Longing? I don't even know.
Later that night, I sat alone in the living room, staring at an old photo I'd shoved to the back of the shelf. It was the three of us. My twelfth birthday. I was holding a cake, smiling with frosting on my nose. Mom had one arm around me, the other on Dad's shoulder.
It looked like a happy family.
But it was a lie. Just a moment before the storm.
I wanted to burn it. But I couldn't.
Because a part of me—stupid, naïve, and probably twelve years old—still missed her.
Still wanted to ask why.
Still wondered if she ever missed me too.
To be continued...