1.
Minho followed Han Jiho’s lead, picking up a piece of red and yellow bell pepper to pop into his mouth. Choi Kyung-hye watched him, a subtle flash of surprise leaving her momentarily speechless.
“I’ve never seen him eat like that…”
Choi Kyung-hye spoke quietly, looking on with unfamiliarity as Minho enjoyed the colorful vegetables with the ease of a child.
Han Na-Eun smiled at her words. She watched with contentment as Minho showed these small, positive shifts in his habits.
“Minho usually eats rice and side dishes together, doesn’t he? Like an adult’s meal.”
Choi Kyung-hye nodded. “That’s true.”
She had always ensured he faced a neat, formal table setting—the kind intended for an adult—but a thought crossed her mind: had it been stifling for him all along?
Han Na-Eun looked at Minho, who was happily chewing on the bell pepper, and added calmly, “It’s better if he eats like this, whenever possible.”
She had always believed that, in line with a child’s development, the rhythm and order of eating were essential.
Choi Kyung-hye fell into a silent, pensive state before frowning slightly at Han Na-Eun. “Then has he been eating like this ever since you moved in?”
Han Na-Eun nodded, a soft smile playing on her lips. “Yes. I’ve often served it this way when he eats with Han Jiho, too.”
Once the boys had eaten their fill of vegetables, Han Na-Eun brought over thin slices of grilled beef. The table was soon filled with the savory aroma of meat. Seeing the children eating with such appetite, Choi Kyung-hye’s expression softened, the corners of her mouth finally rising in relief.
“Goodness, I didn’t know. Well, it has been thirty years, after all.”
She frowned slightly, ruminating on the sudden realization that the parenting methods she had mastered so long ago no longer applied.
Choi Kang-woo spoke up, cutting through her contemplation. “We agreed to leave the raising of the children to the teacher.”
His tone carried a clear, firm boundary: he wanted no further interference.
Choi Kyung-hye narrowed her eyes, glaring at him sharply. “I’m learning, too.”
Her voice was rooted in maternal authority. At her claim that this was a matter of learning rather than interference, Choi Kang-woo pressed his lips together. He didn’t look away, though; he let out a light sigh and retorted with a trace of playfulness.
“What are you going to do with that knowledge now? Planning to raise another child?”
His voice was carefully measured, a subtle wall erected to keep her from getting too deeply involved.
Choi Kyung-hye glared at him, her air one of discomfort. “Honestly, the way you talk…”
After a long, sharp look, she took a metaphorical step back. “Did you eat?”
Choi Kang-woo shook his head. “No.”
Choi Kyung-hye stared at him, her voice returning to its authoritative, firm register. “Come to the Main Building.”
“Understood.”
In truth, Choi Kang-woo had wanted to reach for those bell peppers, to eat just as the children were doing beside Han Na-Eun. He didn’t know why he felt the impulse. The meals with his parents at the Main Building were always stiff, devoid of any genuine comfort. He had wanted the meat Han Na-Eun had grilled, too.
Once they were at the Main Building, seated at the table, Choi Kang-woo found himself complaining about the side dishes.
“Is there any beef?”
Choi Kyung-hye looked at him, surprised. “Why? Are you craving meat? We have braised beef.”
“Give me a steak.”
“What’s gotten into you? You’ve always eaten whatever was set before you, and now you’re asking for steak.”
A little later, Choi Kang-woo cut into a piece of steak from the kitchen, taking a large, satisfying bite. It seemed that moving between her world and his was leaving a mark on him. It was amusing to realize he was being influenced by the way Han Na-Eun looked after the boys. He hadn’t been watching her for very long, yet even his work hours had started to creep earlier.
Realizing this, Choi Kang-woo let out a small, involuntary sigh. The sharp gaze of his father, Chairman Choi, immediately struck him.
“What’s with the sigh? Is something wrong at the company?” Chairman Choi’s voice was stern, his eyes dissecting his son’s expression.
Choi Kang-woo met his gaze for a moment before shaking his head. “What could be wrong at the company? I report to you every day, don’t I?”
His words were calm, but they hinted that he had no interest in hearing further nagging.
Chairman Choi frowned. “Right. You shouldn’t sigh at the dinner table.” The warning was heavy.
Choi Kang-woo bowed his head. “I know.” He nodded silently, though his expression had already hardened.
Chairman Choi waited a moment before picking up his cutlery, asking nonchalantly, “Are both Minho and Han Jiho down with a cold?”
Choi Kang-woo raised his head. “Yes. They’re growing, so it’s natural. Their fevers seem quite high, though. They won’t be going to Myeongseong Kindergarten tomorrow.” His tone was relaxed, but his underlying concern was evident.
Chairman Choi nodded. “I see. Both of them, then.”
Choi Kang-woo sighed quietly. “They said it’s highly contagious.”
At that, Chairman Choi waved a hand and looked at his wife. “Don’t you go to The Annex, either.”
Choi Kyung-hye blinked, flustered. “Why?”
“You might catch it from the kids,” Chairman Choi added indifferently. “I can’t afford to be sick. I have a golf appointment next week.”
The implication was clear: he was the only one who mattered.
Choi Kyung-hye frowned, offering a bitter smile. “Honestly, are you worried about me, or just yourself?”
Chairman Choi disregarded her entirely, continuing to eat. Choi Kang-woo watched them, swallowing a sigh. At this table, selfishness and indifference remained as stagnant as ever—even when it was his own flesh and blood suffering.
Feeling a twinge of embarrassment, Chairman Choi cleared his throat.
* * *
Walking toward The Annex through the garden after the meal, Choi Kang-woo stopped abruptly. A change was undeniably taking place. The image of Han Na-Eun, her eyes crinkling like half-moons when she smiled, would suddenly pop into his mind. He remembered her running around to dress a naked, racing child. That, he realized, was the very definition of a sweet home.
It was strange. Aren’t they all unhappy people? Minho doesn’t live with his parents, and she is a single mother. Yet, why did it feel like the place where she was with the children was the happiest place of all?
When Choi Kang-woo entered, he saw Han Na-Eun sleeping, slumped against the sofa. It was late, though not so late that the quiet was unexpected—the children must have fallen asleep.
He turned to head upstairs, but a sound caught his ear: a soft, pained moan. Choi Kang-woo hesitated, turned back, and approached her. He reached out to touch her forehead. Her fever was searing. It wasn’t just the children; she had caught it, too.
He shook her gently. “Teacher? Teacher.”
Han Na-Eun barely managed to lift her eyelids. Double lids had formed on her thin, tired eyes.
“Ah… I must have fallen asleep here.”
“I think you have a fever.”
He brought a thermometer and checked her temperature. It beeped almost instantly.
“39.1 degrees—are you a fool? Why don’t you know when you’re running a fever?”
“Ah…”
She had felt chilled while tidying up the paper, but with Han Jiho’s fever so high, she had lost all awareness of her own body.
“I just need an antipyretic,” she said, her face flushed with heat.
Choi Kang-woo let out a low, frustrated sound. “The kids already got injections; do you really think an antipyretic will be enough for you?”
“I’m an adult.”
“Adult, my foot.” The words left his lips without him thinking.
To him, she seemed like a woman who was still so very young. It was impressive enough that, at barely twenty-seven, she was playing the role of mother and teacher to a child despite her own small frame.
He didn’t know why he felt so protective.
“Stay right there. I’ll bring the medicine.”
He walked to the drawer, returning with the pills and a glass of water. “Take it.”
Han Na-Eun looked at the medicine, then up at him. Their gazes tangled in the quiet air of the room.
“What are you staring at? I told you to take it.”
She felt the awkwardness of the moment. She wasn’t used to this kind of kindness. It felt like her father, back when he was alive—the way he’d come to her desk if she fell asleep studying, or how he’d bring her medicine and watch over her when she was sick.
How long ago had that been? The time spent living between a stepmother and a sister after her father passed, the time spent crying alone while raising a baby—all those moments rushed over her at once.
Her eyes moistened without her consent.