Mira's phone buzzed with a message as she sat in her apartment, staring blankly at the news coverage of Jae's public defiance.
Unknown Number: Ms. Yoon, I would like to speak with you again. Tea at the same place. The car will come at 3 PM. —Hae-soo Park
Her fingers trembled as she read the words. The last time she had spoken to Jae's mother, she had been interrogated, tested, and left with the weight of knowing she was the reason Jae was tearing his family apart.
But this time, something in the tone of the message felt different.
She replied with a simple:
"I'll be there."
---
The same black sedan picked her up, but this time, the atmosphere was less suffocating. When she arrived at the hanok, Hae-soo was already seated, pouring tea with a quiet focus.
"Sit," she said, not looking up.
Mira bowed slightly before taking her seat. The silence stretched, heavy but not hostile.
Hae-soo finally lifted her gaze, and Mira was surprised to see the exhaustion in her eyes—not the cold calculation from before, but something softer. Something like resignation.
"You must think I'm here to convince you to leave him," Hae-soo said.
Mira hesitated. "Aren't you?"
Hae-soo sighed, setting down the teapot. "No."
The word hung between them, fragile and unexpected.
"Do you know what kind of child Jae was?" Hae-soo asked, her voice quieter now.
Mira shook her head.
"Stubborn," she said. "But not in the way people think. He never fought openly. He would simply… endure. When we moved abroad, he didn't complain. When his father insisted he study business instead of literature, he agreed. When we told him to attend endless dinners with investors' daughters, he went without protest."
She traced the rim of her teacup absently.
"But there was always one thing he refused to compromise on—his principles. If he believed something was wrong, he would dig his heels in silently. No arguments, just quiet resistance."
Mira's chest tightened.
"This," Hae-soo gestured to the newspaper on the table, the headline screaming about Jae's defiance, "is the first time I've seen him fight openly. The first time he's been willing to lose everything for something—for someone."
Mira swallowed hard. "I never wanted to cause trouble for your family."
Hae-soo's expression softened. "I know."
Silence settled between them, the weight of understanding pressing down.
Then—
"His father won't change his mind," Hae-soo said quietly. "He believes Jae is throwing away his future. And he will cut him off if he has to."
Mira's stomach twisted. "I don't want that for him."
Hae-soo studied her for a long moment. "Do you love him?"
The question hit Mira like a physical blow.
She opened her mouth—but no words came out.
Hae-soo didn't press. Instead, she reached into her sleeve and pulled out a small, worn notebook—one Mira recognized instantly.
Her old speech therapy journal.
"He kept this," Hae-soo said, sliding it across the table. "All these years."
Mira's hands shook as she took it.
"A mother's heart is a complicated thing," Hae-soo murmured. "We want what's best for our children. But sometimes, we forget that what we think is best may not be what they need."
She stood, smoothing her hanbok.
"I won't stand in his way," she said finally. "But his father will not be so easily swayed."
Mira clutched the journal to her chest. "What should I do?"
Hae-soo's lips curved—just slightly. "What you've always done. Stand by him."
And with that, she left Mira sitting there, the scent of tea and peonies lingering in the air.
Mira didn't move for a long time.
She flipped through the journal, her childhood handwriting staring back at her—speech exercises, notes from therapists, little encouragements she'd written to herself.
And tucked between the pages, a photo.
A younger Jae, standing in front of their elementary school, holding a first-place certificate from a debate competition—one she remembered judging for him when no one else would listen to his stuttering classmate.
On the back, in his messy scrawl:
"You were the first person who ever really heard me."
Mira pressed a hand to her mouth, her heart aching.
Her phone buzzed.
Jae: Where are you?
She took a shaky breath and typed:
Me: We need to talk.