The snow fell in thick, swirling flakes, blanketing the world in an oppressive white. Na-eun stood before the nursery window with her stepmother, Misuk. Watching the newborn wiggle inside its swaddle filled her with a profound, quiet wonder. It was her sister’s baby.
So this is what a newborn is like. So small, fragile, and lovely. It’s truly miraculous.
As she stared, lost in the sight, Misuk turned to the nurse.
“We’ve seen enough. Take the baby back.”
With a curt nod, the nurse wheeled the infant away.
“I need to talk to you. Follow me.”
“Mom, what is this about? Can’t you just say it here?”
“It’s not for public ears. Come outside.”
Na-eun followed her to the back of the hospital. Without umbrellas, they were quickly dusted in white. The cold air bit at their skin, and the falling snow felt like a physical weight pressing down on the unease already tightening in Na-eun’s chest.
Na-eun brushed the flakes from her hair, her voice tight.
“What is it, Mom?”
Misuk remained silent for a long moment, a flicker of cold dissatisfaction marring her features.
“That baby Ha-young gave birth to—you’re going to register her under your name.”
Na-eun’s eyes widened, her frame locking in place. She felt as though the snow had finally seeped into her bones, freezing her heart solid.
“Excuse me? What are you talking about?”
She barely managed the words, her gaze sharpening into something defensive.
Misuk waved a dismissive hand, scattering the snow.
“Are you pretending you don’t understand? What choice do we have? The records say you’re the one who gave birth to the child. Let’s just keep it that way for the birth registration.”
Na-eun’s lips quivered. Misuk’s words cut deeper than the winter gale.
“What… is this…”
Misuk sighed, refusing to meet her eyes as she stared at the slushy ground.
“Think about it. Who do you think is feeding us? We’re living off the money Ha-young earns.”
She seemed intent on ignoring the anger and sorrow etched onto Na-eun’s face.
“Mom,” Na-eun began, her voice trembling, but Misuk cut her off.
“That’s right. The only reason you call me ‘Mom’ is because I’ve been taking care of you.” Misuk muttered, a sneer twisting her lips. “Why is my life so wretched? My husband died, and I’m stuck raising his daughter.”
Na-eun stood paralyzed. In the freezing flurry, she felt her world turning to ice. These weren’t just words; they were jagged shards lodged deep in her chest. She was almost twenty-two, weeks away from graduating junior college. She had worked so hard for her Level 1 Childcare Teacher Certificate, believing she had finally paved a path toward independence. How could they dismantle her life like this?
“How could you do this to me? How?”
Her voice echoed, a sharp, ragged lament against the cold. Misuk finally looked at her, but her expression remained detached.
“Ha-young landed an MC role on a sports channel. The first broadcast is in two months. She’s working to feed us, and you can’t do this one thing for her? Ha-young is going to soar. Who knows what she’ll become.”
Na-eun’s breath hitched. She balled her fists until her knuckles went white.
“And what about me? What about my life?”
Misuk gave a thin, bitter smile.
“You? You’ll work as a teacher and marry some decent man. What’s the harm in raising the baby? Any man you marry will understand.” Misuk sighed again. “And if your sister succeeds, she’ll be able to send you plenty of money. Think of it as an investment.”
Na-eun’s heart plummeted. Her gaze turned chillingly cold.
“Is money the only thing that matters? If you’re so worried about it, put the baby on your own registry.”
Misuk scoffed.
“Don’t be naive. If I put the baby on my registry, people will know I had a child at my age without a husband. The tabloids would tear Ha-young apart. Family is supposed to help, isn’t it?”
Na-eun had nothing left to say. Her soul felt hollowed out, drained by the sheer cruelty of the logic presented to her. After a long, suffocating silence, her lips turned deathly pale.
Misuk crossed her arms and took a step back.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ I’ll handle the rest; you just stay quiet. If you don’t want to raise her, you can always leave her at an orphanage.”
Misuk’s voice was final. She turned, leaving Na-eun alone in the snow.
Na-eun walked back to the nursery as if in a trance. The snow melted on her forehead, trickling down her face like tears she hadn’t yet dared to shed. Her shoulders were deeply hunched, carrying a burden that felt heavier than the winter sky.
Through the glass, she saw the infants again. A nurse approached with a kind smile.
“Oh, you’ve come back.”
“Yes…” Na-eun replied, her voice fragile. “I’d like to see the baby one more time.”
The nurse held the infant up against the glass. She was an infinite, tiny life—fingers and toes curled, sleeping with the innocence of an angel. Her skin was as pale as the snow outside. Na-eun reached out, her fingertips pressing against the cold, hard window.
“An orphanage is not an option. You…”
She didn’t finish the thought, but she made a silent, desperate promise.
“I’ll take you now.”
She turned away, her steps heavy and slow, while the baby continued to sleep, oblivious to the storm.
* * *
A month passed. Ha-young, having no interest in motherhood, left the feeding and burping entirely to Na-eun. One afternoon, Na-eun walked over, carrying a smiling Jiho.
“Unni!”
“What?” Ha-young was stretching, eyes fixed on a video.
“Our Jiho is so beautiful. She smiles when she sees me now.”
Ha-young didn’t look up.
“I don’t want to. I’m afraid I’ll get attached. If you don’t put her on your registry, I’m sending her to an orphanage.”
Na-eun gasped. “How can you say that? You’re her mother.”
“And I’ll do what I want. If you’re not going to take responsibility, stop butting in!”
It was absurd, but Na-eun was trapped. If she walked away, the child she had cradled for a month would be abandoned.
Na-eun retreated to her room, clutching Jiho. When she looked down, the baby’s pure, bright smile shattered her resolve.
“Okay…” Na-eun whispered, her voice trembling. “You’re my baby.”
The rhythm of the infant’s breathing was soft as petals in the wind. Na-eun tried to swallow her tears, but the grief burned too hot, piercing her heart. She knew she was being forced into a life not her own, bound by the whims of others, yet she could see no way out.
* * *
Five years later.
Rain fell with violent intensity, lashing against the car windows.
“Is it still a while?” Choi Kang-woo asked his driver.
“No, sir. We’ll be there soon, Representative.”
“Right.”
He closed his eyes. As the head of Myeongseong Media, he had just finished visiting a filming site in Pocheon and was heading to pick up his nephew, Minho, from Myeongseong University Kindergarten.
The five-year-old had a life marked by conflict. His mother had left after a bitter divorce, and his father had moved to the European branch, leaving the boy in the care of his grandparents. Caught in the wake of his parents’ neglect, the child waited late into the night for an uncle who was often his only connection to stability.