Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Momo let out a long, frustrated sigh.

Her English homework sat in front of her, half-finished and taunting. The letters on the page refused to stay still. They danced and twisted, flipping themselves like they were in on some cruel joke. She blinked hard, trying to focus, but it only made things worse. The words broke apart again — and this time, they didn't come back together.

Today was one of the hard days.

Some days were fine. Some days she could read just like everyone else — not easily, but enough to scrape through. But then there were days like this. Days when her brain felt like static. When even the simplest sentence turned into a maze.

She gripped her pencil harder, pressing so hard the lead snapped. “Ugh—!” The sound escaped her before she could stop it.

Her room was quiet except for the hum of the fan in the corner. Her textbooks were scattered across her desk, open to pages full of exercises she couldn’t make sense of. She had tried to underline the important parts like her teacher said, but all the colors just made it worse — her highlighter bleeding across words she couldn’t read to begin with.

With another heavy sigh, she tossed the pencil aside and shut her workbook. The pages crinkled as she slammed it closed.

That was it. Another homework she wouldn’t finish. Another bad mark waiting for her.

She leaned forward and buried her face in her hands. Maybe she could ask Dahyun tomorrow morning before class. Dahyun always helped her — never judged, never acted like it was a burden. Even when Momo fumbled over the same sentence three times in a row, Dahyun would just sit beside her, calm and steady, explaining things again like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She didn’t want to ask her moms. Not again. They had enough to deal with lately.

The house had been tense for weeks. Nayeon — always the gentle one, the patient one — came home from the kindergarten drained, like she'd used up all her warmth on other people’s kids. And Jeongyeon, who used to laugh even when things got hectic, had been so quiet lately. Ever since her promotion, she'd been working late, barely talking at dinner. Momo had asked once — just once — why things felt off. Why no one was smiling anymore.

Nayeon had muttered something about "just being tired." Jeongyeon said it was "grown-up stuff."

And then there was silence again. Heavy, uncomfortable, the kind that made Momo wish she hadn’t said anything at all.

She missed how things used to be — before Jeongyeon got promoted, before the silence started creeping in like fog. Back when family dinners were loud and messy, and Nayeon sang while doing the dishes, and Jeongyeon made up ridiculous stories about her day on patrol just to make Momo laugh.

Now everything felt... stuck. Like her homework. Like her head.

Momo wiped her face with the sleeve of her hoodie and stared at the closed book on her desk. She hated this feeling — being behind and not knowing how to catch up. It was like drowning in slow motion, while everyone else kept swimming past. She knew she wasn’t stupid. But when the letters refused to behave, when she couldn’t finish an assignment no matter how long she stared at it, the doubt crept in anyway.

She wasn’t lazy. She was trying. Every single day.

But some days, like today, trying didn’t feel like enough.

Just then, she heard the front door swing open downstairs. Heavy boots thudded against the hardwood floor, followed by the telltale clatter of them being kicked off — not neatly placed by the door, like Jeongyeon always reminded them, but dropped like someone couldn’t wait to get them off. That was definitely Nayeon.

Before Momo could even stand, she heard the scrabble of tiny paws on the staircase — fast, frantic, joyful. A second later, a little dog came barreling into her room like a furry cannonball.

“Boo!” Momo’s face lit up.

The Norwich terrier launched himself at her, tongue already out, tail wagging so hard it looked like it might fall off. She barely had time to crouch before he leapt into her arms, letting out a high-pitched bark and immediately covering her cheeks in licks.

“Wofff!” he declared, like he hadn’t seen her in years.

“Hey, hey—calm down, little monster!” Momo laughed, trying to fend off his affection but secretly loving it. Boo wiggled with joy, nose nuzzling into her neck, his whole tiny body vibrating with excitement. He always did this — the full-on welcome party — every time someone came home. But with Momo, it felt different. He knew when she was struggling. When she needed this.

She held him close, her cheek pressed into his warm fur. His heartbeat thumped against her chest, steady and small. It made everything feel a little more okay.

From downstairs, she could hear muffled voices — her parents talking in low tones, too quiet to catch clearly. Something about tomorrow’s schedule? No — something more serious. That edge in Jeongyeon’s voice was back. Momo couldn’t hear the words, but she recognized the tension.

She gave Boo one last tight squeeze and set him gently down on the floor.

“Come on,” she murmured, brushing his ears. “Let’s go face whatever’s waiting.”

Boo gave a little snort, then trotted to the door, pausing to look back and wag his tail like let’s go already.

Momo followed him out into the hallway, her socked feet silent against the floorboards. The upstairs lights were dim, the house quiet in that late-afternoon lull when the day wasn’t quite over, but everyone was already tired.

At the top of the staircase, she paused.

Below, the house glowed gold from the kitchen light spilling into the hallway. She caught the smell of curry — warm and slightly spicy. Nayeon must have picked it up on the way home from work, probably too exhausted to cook after wrangling toddlers all day. There were faint sounds, too — the clink of utensils, the low rumble of Jeongyeon’s voice again, more tense than tired.

Momo's fingers curled against the railing. Her chest felt tight in that way it always did when she didn’t know what kind of evening she was stepping into — quiet and fine, or quiet and... not.

Then Boo broke the silence.

He shot down the stairs at full speed, nails skittering lightly on the wood, and barked once — sharp and cheerful, like announcing, I'm coming!

Momo managed a small smile and took a breath. She followed him, each step slow and careful, trying not to think about the unfinished homework still sitting on her desk, or the heavy quiet that might be waiting in the kitchen.

At the bottom of the stairs, she crossed the hall and stopped in the doorway that opened into the kitchen.

The room was warm and familiar — pale wooden cabinets, soft yellow light overhead, the quiet hum of the old fridge buzzing in the corner. The table had a slight wobble on one leg, the one Jeongyeon always swore she’d fix. Curry scent hung in the air, sharp with lemongrass and basil. Outside, a cicada buzzed, signaling the end of a humid summer day.

Nayeon moved around the table. She was laying out plates, but her face was tense, brows furrowed as she listened to Jeongyeon, who stood at the counter, unpacking takeout containers and lining them up in perfect order.

“I’m not sure about it,” Jeongyeon was saying, her back half-turned. “Maybe she’s just overwhelmed again, but it’s starting to look like—”

She broke off when her eyes landed on Momo standing in the doorway.

“Oh—hey, love,” she said, tone shifting instantly, warm but not quite relaxed. “Already finished with your homework?”

Momo stiffened for a split second before answering.

“Yeah. Almost. Just some English left,” she mumbled, hoping that would be enough to end the conversation.

There was a flicker in Nayeon’s face — not doubt, but something close to worry. She set the last plate down on the table, wiped her palms on the sides of her jeans, and crossed the room without hesitation. In a single, practiced motion, she wrapped her arms around Momo, pulling her in for a hug that was firm and grounding.

Momo stiffened, caught off guard. Her arms hung at her sides for a beat too long — then slowly, instinctively, she relaxed into it. Nayeon was smaller now — or maybe Momo had just gotten taller — but her mother’s chin tucked neatly into the space between Momo’s shoulder and neck.

“I missed you today,” she murmured, not pulling back. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah,” Momo replied but it came out flat, unconvincing.

Nayeon didn’t press. She just gave her daughter a soft pat on the cheek and stepped away, returning to the table like it was any other Tuesday night.

The apartment smelled faintly of jasmine rice and fresh rain through the cracked kitchen window. A stack of unopened mail sat on the counter next to Jeongyeon’s work bag, and Boo’s leash still dangled from a hook by the door.

Right on cue, Boo came racing in behind Momo, tail wagging wildly, and he let out a hopeful little bark. His nose immediately went to the floor under the table, snuffling for dropped rice.

Momo walked the rest of the way into the kitchen, shoulders a little stiff, her socked feet silent on the warm wood floor. She slid into her usual chair, which creaked under her with a familiar sound that was equal parts comfort and reminder of how often she’d sat here.

“We got your favorite,” Jeongyeon said, still not looking at her. “The tofu green curry from that place near the station.”

Nayeon handed her a plate. “We figured it’s been a while,” she added, voice deliberately light. “And you’ve been working hard lately. Thought you deserved something easy tonight.”

Momo nodded, eyes on the plate. The curry smelled amazing — rich and coconut-sweet with just enough spice — but her stomach hadn’t caught up yet. She could feel both of them watching her from opposite ends of the room, and not in a dramatic way — just that quiet, familiar kind of parental scanning, like they were checking for cracks she might be trying to hide.

Nayeon exchanged a glance with Jeongyeon, who said nothing at first. She just moved around the kitchen, grabbing the water jug from the fridge and setting it down on the table. She poured it into three mismatched glasses — one of them chipped on the rim, another covered in faded cartoon dinosaurs from a plastic cup set Momo had begged for when she was seven.

Finally, it was Nayeon who spoke, her voice softer now. “We know school’s been tough lately,” she said. “You’ve had kind of a rough week… right?”

Momo’s stomach twisted. She hated that question — not because it wasn’t true, but because it always led somewhere. She never knew how much truth to give them.

“Kind of,” she muttered.

Jeongyeon leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, watching her. “Is it still English? Or everything?”

Momo tensed.

That still landed hard. Like it was a phase she should’ve grown out of by now. Like she hadn’t been working twice as hard for years to keep up with everyone else. It made her feel eight again, and small, and broken.

“I’m managing,” she said, flatly, eyes on her food.

She wasn’t. And they knew it.

Nayeon leaned forward, her voice softening even more as she gently laid her hand over Momo’s wrist. “You don’t have to manage everything alone, sweetheart.”

Momo pulled back without thinking, the movement reflexive and too fast — but the guilt hit immediately after. Her stomach clenched, and a thick, familiar shame crawled up her throat.

Nayeon blinked but didn’t say anything. She just folded her hands in her lap, like she was trying not to show how much it hurt.

“I said I’m fine,” Momo snapped, sharper than she meant. Boo lifted his head from under the table at the shift in her tone, eyes blinking up at her with mild concern.

The room grew heavy again.

Jeongyeon’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t raise her voice. Instead, she calmly set her spoon down beside her plate with a soft clink. “Ms. Yoon sent an email,” she said carefully composed. “About your history assignment.”

Momo froze, her breath catching behind her ribs.

“She said it wasn’t submitted,” Jeongyeon continued. “That it’s the second one you’ve missed this month.”

There was no accusation in her tone, only a kind of worn-out worry, like she’d rehearsed the words in her head and still didn’t know how to say them right. She sounded like she was trying to keep things steady, even as everything in the room started to tilt slightly sideways.

But Momo felt the weight of it all the same — heavy, suffocating, familiar.

Because what she’d said was true.

The assignment had been open on her laptop the night before. A short summary of a chapter they’d reviewed in class — nothing difficult on paper, nothing new. But the cursor had just blinked at her, patiently and endlessly, while her mind stalled out. She’d tried to start. Typed one sentence. Deleted it. Tried again. Moved words around. Lost the thread. The events jumbled together, the dates slid out of order, and every line she wrote sounded wrong.

After a while, she’d closed the file. Told herself she’d come back to it after a break, after dinner, after she wasn’t so tired — and she hadn’t.

Now they knew. And even though they weren’t yelling, even though there was no anger in their eyes, Momo could feel the shame rising through her like a slow wave. She could feel it in her throat, her jaw, her spine — the way her whole body seemed to fold inward without moving.

Her fingers curled against the edge of her plate.

“I forgot,” she said finally, though she wasn’t sure it was the whole truth. Saying I forgot felt simpler than explaining the mess inside her head. Easier than admitting she had sat there for nearly an hour, doing nothing but trying and failing to start.

Jeongyeon didn’t sigh. She didn’t look disappointed, or frustrated. She just watched her, quietly, as if holding back the instinct to say more — because maybe she understood that saying more would only press harder on a bruise that was already sore.

Nayeon’s hand reached out again, warm and careful, fingers resting lightly on top of Momo’s. “We’re not trying to push you,” she said gently. “We just… we’ve seen you struggle before. And we worry. That’s all.”

“I know,” Momo snapped, before she could stop herself. “You’ve always worried. I’m not five anymore.”

That landed like a rock on the table.

She hadn’t meant it like that — not really. But once it was out, she couldn’t take it back. Both her moms went quiet. Boo, sensing the shift, whined softly and rested his chin on Momo’s foot.

Across from her, Nayeon’s face faltered. Her eyes dropped to her plate, and her shoulders slumped just slightly, as if the fight had drained out of her before it even began. Jeongyeon looked away, her jaw tight, eyes fixed on the edge of the takeout box like she might crush it between her fingers.

Momo swallowed hard, her appetite gone. She hadn’t meant to hurt them. But the pressure had been building for days. Weeks. Maybe months. The weight of always being “the one who needed extra help.” The one who couldn’t read fast. The one who already took more energy than a normal teenager should. She had heard them whisper before — not in a bad way, not angry — just concerned. Tired.

They had always worried about her. She knew that. From the very beginning.

She wasn’t a blank slate when they adopted her. She had arrived with a history she couldn’t explain and wounds too deep for words — small and silent, afraid of loud noises and sudden touches, flinching at kindness because she hadn’t yet learned to trust it.

But Nayeon and Jeongyeon had never once backed away.

They had met her fear with patience. Her silence with presence. Her resistance with warmth.

Every bedtime she refused to lie down alone was met with a gentle voice reading stories till she slept. Every touch she pulled away from was followed not with frustration, but with understanding. Every night she woke up screaming — confused by dreams she couldn’t name — there was always someone there, arms open, waiting. Never pushing. Always waiting.

And they kept showing up.

Even when she pushed back. Even when she doubted them. Even when it would’ve been easier to pull away.

They gave her the kind of love that didn’t need proving. And slowly — so slowly it had taken years — she started to believe it was real. That she was safe. That she was home.

By the time she turned eight, it almost felt like they’d made it through the worst. She had begun laughing more, testing boundaries in the way regular kids did. Her teachers said she was catching up in most subjects. Her nightmares were fewer. For the first time, her moms had started to relax, just a little.

Then came the reading problems.

At first, no one understood. Her teachers said she was distracted, unfocused, not trying hard enough. Some called her lazy. Others suggested extra tutoring, but no one seemed to ask the right questions. Momo knew she was trying. She wanted to read like the others — but the words wouldn’t behave. They floated. Swapped places. Sometimes, whole sentences looked like noise.

Her moms pushed back. Hard.

They sat through meetings with clipped smiles and folded arms. They challenged notes home. They demanded testing, demanded answers. They kept fighting until someone finally listened.

And when the diagnosis came — dyslexia — it was almost a relief. A name for the thing she couldn’t fight alone.

But it didn’t make anything easier.

It meant more. More meetings. More paperwork. More long evenings at the kitchen table with Nayeon coaxing her through reading comprehension exercises while Jeongyeon sat nearby, still in uniform, going over spelling flashcards even when Momo was clearly too tired to care. It meant new frustrations — hers, theirs — disguised beneath layers of forced optimism and tightly held patience.

She had never been the “easy one.”

And even though her moms had never once said that — even though they fought for her every step of the way — Momo still carried the truth in her chest: she took up space. She cost energy. Time. Focus. They had never made her feel unwanted, not once — but still, she saw it.

She saw the way Nayeon rubbed her temples when she thought no one was looking. The quiet sighs Jeongyeon let out in the car before she came inside. The fatigue etched in their faces after long days spent helping her catch up while the rest of the world seemed to move on effortlessly.

They always smiled for her. Always said the right things. But Momo wasn’t a kid anymore. And she saw it all now.

And tonight, sitting across the table from them, watching their tired faces, she felt like too much again.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally, the words quiet but steady.

Jeongyeon looked up first. Her expression had softened — the lines of frustration still there, but no longer sharp. Nayeon glanced up, too, her mouth parting slightly like she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure where to begin.

“I didn’t mean that,” Momo went on, barely above a whisper. “I just… I know it’s a lot. I know I’m a lot.”

Jeongyeon set her fork down and leaned forward slightly. “You’re not a lot, Momo,” she said, her voice quiet but solid. “You’re ours.”

There was no hesitation, no doubt. Just simple truth, spoken the way Jeongyeon always spoke when she needed Momo to hear her heart even if Momo couldn’t meet her eyes. “You’re our daughter. That’s it. That’s enough.”

Momo’s throat tightened. Something sharp caught behind her ribs.

“And we love you,” Nayeon added gently, her voice quieter than usual, like she wasn’t sure it would reach. “Always. No matter what. You know that.”

Momo gave a tiny nod, but she didn’t speak. She couldn’t. The words meant everything — and yet they couldn’t undo the way guilt clung to her ribs like wet fabric. She knew they loved her. She never doubted that. But love didn’t erase the exhaustion she saw in their eyes or the way they moved through the day as if constantly balancing something fragile.

They didn’t push her to talk more. Didn’t ask anything else of her.

They just sat with her in the quiet.

Dinner went on in low murmurs and the soft clink of cutlery. Not tense, but careful — like everyone was trying not to touch the bruise too hard. Nayeon quietly refilled water glasses. Jeongyeon gave Boo a few sneaky bites of tofu under the table, smiling faintly when he licked her fingers in approval. Momo took small bites, forcing herself to eat, even though her throat still felt tight.

By the time they cleared the table, the sun had dipped behind the rooftops, leaving the kitchen in that muted blue that always arrived before the lights came on. Boo stretched out with a yawn, belly round and satisfied, while the three of them moved quietly through the motions of normalcy — dishes, leftovers, silence.

Whatever this was — whatever it became — it wasn’t going away on its own.

But for tonight, they stayed close.

Still trying.

Still choosing each other.

Even when it was hard.

Chapter Text

The front door clicked shut, and the silence Momo left behind felt heavier than the argument that had preceded it. On the table, her breakfast sat cold and nearly untouched, a small monument to the morning's tension.

Jeongyeon picked up the plate, and scraped its contents into the bin with a finality that made Nayeon flinch. "That's it. I'm calling her history teacher on Monday. We'll set up a meeting. Tutors, extra homework, whatever it takes. This ends now."

Nayeon, huddled over her coffee mug as if for warmth, whitened her knuckles around the ceramic. She shook her head slightly, her eyes fixed on the dark liquid. "Jeong, please, don't. That's just more pressure. You'll corner her."

"And your plan is what, exactly?" Jeongyeon shot back, turning from the sink with her hands still dripping. She braced them on the countertop, leaning forward. "To wait? To hope it magically fixes itself? I am watching my daughter slip through my fingers, Nayeon. She is drifting away right in front of us, and you want to stand on the shore and hope the tide brings her back!" Her hands were clenched, the strict set of her jaw a thin mask over the sheer panic in her eyes.

"Because I'm afraid the tide isn't the problem," Nayeon replied softly. She finally looked up, her gaze steady, and pushed her chair back with a quiet scrape. She rose and walked the few steps that separated them, stopping just short of the counter.

Jeongyeon let out a sharp, humorless laugh, pushing away from the counter and turning her back for a moment as if to dismiss the thought entirely. "What does that even mean? If it's not school, what is it? A boy? Friends? You have to give me something to work with, because 'I'm afraid' isn't a solution."

Nayeon took a breath, gathering herself. "Honestly, Jeong. I think it's us."

The accusation hung in the air between them. Jeongyeon turned back slowly, her expression hardening into disbelief. "Us? So her failing history is our fault now? That's what you're saying? Because we have a disagreement once in a while?"

"Once in a while?" Nayeon's voice trembled, but she held Jeongyeon's gaze, taking another small step closer. "The other night… when we were arguing about the credit card bill? I thought I heard her door, so I went to check. She was just sitting on her bed, Jeong, with her big headphones on. I smiled, I thought she was listening to music." Nayeon paused, swallowing hard as her eyes welled up. "But I got closer to say goodnight, and there was no sound. No lights on the side. Nothing. She was just… wearing them. To block us out."

Jeongyeon stopped pacing, her expression a mix of guilt and defiance. "So this is our fault? We're arguing about the finances for this house, for her future, and that's why she's failing?"

"No," Nayeon said, shaking her head as she closed the final foot of distance between them. She gently placed a hand on Jeongyeon's rigid arm. The muscle beneath her palm was tense as a wire. "I think… I think our fighting is the gasoline, but I don't think it's the fire." She traced the seam of Jeongyeon's sleeve with her thumb, her gaze distant. "I think something else is going on. Something she’s not telling us."

Jeongyeon’s shoulders sagged, the fight finally draining out of her. She let out a long, shuddering breath and leaned her hip against the counter, the anger in her eyes softening into wary concern. "Bigger how? What are you seeing that I'm not?"

"She hasn't been to the dance studio in two weeks," Nayeon said, finally looking up. For the first time that morning, the fear in her eyes was reflected right back at her. "She told Mina she had too much homework. Two weeks, Jeong. When has Momo ever voluntarily missed dance? That place is her sanctuary, her joy… and she’s avoiding it."

Jeongyeon’s brow furrowed. "Are you sure?" she asked, her voice skeptical. "Two weeks? No. She would've said something. I... I would've noticed."

But Nayeon just held her gaze with a sad, unwavering certainty that made Jeongyeon’s stomach clench. There was no argument to be had. It was the truth.

The fight drained out of Jeongyeon, replaced by a slow, creeping wave of guilt. She leaned back against the counter, the anger in her eyes softening into a hollow, weary concern. "God," she whispered, more to herself than to Nayeon. "I've been so wrapped up in the history assignments... checking the school portal three times a day like a crazy person... and I didn't even see this. The one thing that actually matters to her..."

Nayeon’s expression softened. "You were trying to fix it. We both were. We just... we were pushing on the wrong door so hard we didn't see the others were closing."

Jeongyeon scrubbed a hand over her weary face. "So what do we do? Do we confront her tonight? Do I call Mrs. Yoon? We can't just do nothing."

"No," Nayeon said, the word soft but absolute. Her thumb began to stroke Jeongyeon’s arm in a soothing rhythm. "No more confrontations. No more 'big talks' that are just us asking questions she can't answer. We've done enough of that." She paused, her mind visibly working. "Tonight... You'll make her favorite, kimchi-jjigae, the really spicy way she likes. We'll put on that dumb competitive baking show she's obsessed with. No questions about school, no mention of dance. We just... exist. Together. We make the house feel safe again. We create a space for her to talk, if she wants to. No pressure."

Jeongyeon looked from Nayeon's earnest face to the empty chair where their daughter had sat. The strategy was the opposite of every instinct she had—to meet, to plan, to execute—but she couldn't deny the wreckage her own approach had caused this morning. She took a slow, shaky breath and gave a single, decisive nod. "Okay. No pressure. We just... make the house quiet."

Her free hand reached out, covering Nayeon's on her arm. Her grip tightened for a moment before she gently tugged Nayeon forward, wrapping her arms around her shoulders in a tight, desperate hug. She buried her face in the crook of her wife’s neck, her body trembling slightly with the release of the morning’s tension. Nayeon’s arms came up to encircle her in return, one hand stroking her her hair in a familiar, soothing gesture.

After a long moment, Jeongyeon pulled back just enough to look at her, her hands framing Nayeon's face. She pressed a soft, weary kiss to Nayeon’s temple. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry for being a bulldozer. Sometimes I just... I get so scared, and I forget how to be anything else."

Her gaze was full of a deep, unwavering gratitude. "But you… you always see the things I'm too stubborn and panicked to look at. I would be so lost without you." She leaned in and captured Nayeon's lips in a gentle, lingering kiss. "I love you."

A small, tired smile, full of warmth and forgiveness, touched Nayeon's lips as she squeezed Jeongyeon’s hand in return. "I love you, too," she murmured, her thumb brushing away the tear that had escaped from the corner of Jeongyeon's eye. "We'll figure it out. Together."

With a final, shaky breath, Jeongyeon pulled back, though she kept Nayeon's hand firmly in her own. Her eyes, red-rimmed but clear, held a quiet resolve. "Okay," she whispered, a simple acknowledgment of the difficult path ahead.

She gave Nayeon's hand a gentle tug towards the table. The fight was gone, leaving only a vast, hollow exhaustion in its wake. They sat down and almost in unison, they both reached for their mugs. The coffee was stone cold, but neither seemed to mind. They took a sip, the simple, shared act a mundane comfort, a small anchor in the storm they knew was still gathering.

Jeongyeon set her mug down, her hand brushing against the small pile of post someone had dropped on the table earlier. Absently, she began to sort through it, a mindless task to anchor herself. Bill, credit card offer, and then—a thin, cream-colored envelope.

She saw the official Seoul Prison service marking in the corner and her breath caught in her throat. Her entire body went rigid.

Across the table, Nayeon noticed the change immediately—the sudden stillness, the way Jeongyeon’s hand hovered over the envelope. "Jeong? What is it?"

"Nothing," Jeongyeon said, her voice a little too quick. "Just junk mail." But her hand trembled as she slit the envelope open with her thumbnail. The small, tearing sound seemed to rip through the quiet kitchen. She unfolded the single sheet of paper inside, and as her eyes scanned the lines, Nayeon watched her face go slack with shock. Jeongyeon’s hand lowered to the table as if the letter had suddenly become too heavy to hold, her knuckles white against the dark wood.

When she finished reading, her movements were stiff, robotic. She carefully folded the letter back along its original creases, a desperate attempt to contain what was inside, and slid it back into the envelope. She cleared her throat, placing it at the bottom of the pile with deliberate slowness.

"Anything important?" Nayeon asked gently.

"No. It's work," Jeongyeon replied, focusing on straightening the pile of mail, refusing to meet her wife's eyes. "Old case."

Nayeon didn't move. She watched the tremor in Jeongyeon’s hand. "Jeongyeon, love" she said, her tone soft but unwavering. "We just promised. No more quiet that isn't safe. Look at me."

Jeongyeon’s shoulders slumped in defeat, but she still didn't look up. "Nayeon, please. For your own sake. Let this one go."

"I can't." Nayeon reached across the table, her fingers gently covering Jeongyeon’s tense hand. "Not when you look like you've just seen a ghost. Whatever that is, it’s in our house now. It’s sitting here between us. Don’t build a new wall after we tore one down. Let me help you carry it."

Jeongyeon finally looked up, her face a mask of anguish and conflict. With a hand that trembled slightly, she pulled the single envelope from the pile and pushed it across the table.

Nayeon’s heart pounded against her ribs. She pulled her hand back, her fingers brushing Jeongyeon's in a silent promise before she picked up the letter. The paper felt thin and brittle. She pulled out the single sheet, the crinkles from Jeongyeon's tight grip still visible. She unfolded it, and her eyes scanned the page.

The cursive was neat, almost painstakingly so, but the words themselves were slightly off, the grammar sometimes clumsy, with awkwardly phrased sentences that spoke of a life lived far from classrooms. It forced her to reread a phrase to grasp its raw, desperate meaning, before her eyes finally landed on a name she had prayed she would never read again.

Dear Jeongyeon and Nayeon,

I’m not sure I should even be writing this. Maybe this is the last selfish thing I will ever do. I have no right to put my name in front of you again, to bring the past into your home. I know you have every right to burn this letter now and pretend it never came. In many ways, I hope you do.

The words ‘I’m sorry’ are nothing. They are meaningless, I know that. An apology doesn't silence the memories. And God, I have them all. I close my eyes and I am there. In that cold apartment. I am listening to his footsteps come down the hall, and I am watching her beautiful, perfect face learn how to become invisible. I am watching my own daughter learn to hold her breath so as not to make a sound.

I didn’t just fail to protect her. It was so much worse than that. I stood by and watched a wolf devour her childhood because I was a coward, too high and pathetic to be a mother. I was the one who let him into her life. I was the one who let him steal her safety, her laughter, her light. That is a sin for which there is no forgiveness. Not in this world, and not in the next.

There’s only one way to make memories like that stop for good, and a few years ago, I tried it. I decided my life was a stain that needed to be washed away completely. But God, or whatever is left, is crueler than that. I woke up. And surviving when you don’t want to is its own special kind of prison. It forces you to sit with the ghosts of what you’ve done, day after day after day.

They give you words in here. ‘Accountability.’ ‘Atonement.’ They tell me I am clean now, that I am no longer a danger. But these are just words on a report. They mean nothing when weighed against the truth of what I allowed to happen.

And that is why I must ask you for something impossible. I have a parole hearing on October 3rd, 2025. But I need you to understand something. The state’s forgiveness is just paperwork. The judgment of the police, of the board—it’s all just noise. Walking out of these gates means nothing if I am still a monster in the eyes of the only two people whose judgment has ever mattered.

What I am truly asking for is not my freedom. It’s your peace. I don't know if forgiveness is even possible, but what I am begging for is a chance to unburden you, just a little, from the hate you are so justified in feeling for me. If you were to speak for me, it wouldn't be for the board. It would be a sign to me—the only one that matters—that some form of atonement is possible.

But I know I can't ask that of you. Not for the woman you remember. So before you decide anything, I am begging you to come here. Come into the dark and see me. Look at my face. See what ten years of this has done. I need you to see for yourself if the woman who fed her child to a wolf is truly gone. Then, you can decide if there is anything left that is human, anything worth saving.

I know I forfeited the right to even think her name. There isn’t a moment that passes where I don't know that. I was a poison in her life. You were the medicine. I thank a God I barely believe in for that every single day.

But the thought of one day walking out of this gate, of breathing the same air as her and not knowing… that is a hollowness worse than any cell. It is the one punishment that I think will finally break me.

So I am begging you again. Not for my freedom, but for that shredded piece of a mother that still refuses to die inside me. I see her so clearly in my memory… Does she still get that brilliant sparkle in her eyes when she is happy? Please, just tell me he didn’t take that from her, too.

It is the one question that has kept me breathing when every part of my soul wanted to stop. After all this time. After everything.

Is she truly happy?

Is my Momo okay?

Yours,

Akari

The single sheet of paper trembled in Nayeon’s hand, the neat cursive blurring through a film of tears. She slowly lowered the letter to the table, her knuckles white. A choked, disbelieving sound escaped her lips. "My God..."

Jeongyeon, who had been watching her, a statue carved from pure tension, moved in an instant. Her face was a hard, pale mask. "No. Don't. Don't feel anything. Give it to me."

Nayeon looked up, her expression bewildered. "What?"

"Give me the letter," Jeongyeon repeated, her voice devoid of any of the warmth from moments before."We are burning it. And then we are going to forget this ever arrived."

Nayeon flinched as if struck, instinctively pulling the letter closer to her chest. "Burn it? Jeongyeon, did you... did you read what she wrote? This is a woman at the end of her rope. This is Momo’s life! This is her mother.”

“Her mother is the woman who packed her lunch this morning and reminded her about her English tutoring,” Jeongyeon snapped, her hand reflexively going to the holstered weapon at her hip, a nervous tic from a life spent dealing with threats.

"She sat in a cell for ten years. Ten years, Jeongyeon! And you just want to burn her letter?" Nayeon's voice rose, trembling with a mix of horror and disbelief at Jeongyeon's coldness.

With a jarring scrape of wood against tile, Jeongyeon shot to her feet, her chair flying back an inch. Her palms slammed down flat on the table, her knuckles white. "I want to protect our daughter!" she shot back. "That is the only thing that matters! We just spent the morning realizing Momo is drowning in something we can't see. And your answer is to bring a tsunami to our front door? To bring back the woman who let her be abused? To bring back the memory of Sangmin? No. The answer is no. We burn the letter, and we protect our child."

Slowly, deliberately, Nayeon rose from her own chair to meet her, the letter still held loosely in one hand. She stood on the opposite side of the table, the space between them charged and electric. "She is not the same woman," she pleaded, her eyes glistening, refusing to be intimidated. "She's begging us to just look at her. To see if she's changed. After what she did for us, for our family... how can we refuse her that? How can we be that cruel?"

Jeongyeon stared at her, her expression unyielding, but Nayeon could see the sheer, animal terror behind her eyes. "It is not cruel to protect your own… It is necessary."

She held out her hand. "Give it to me, Nayeon. Please."

Nayeon shook her head, clutching the thin, cheap paper as if it were a life raft. "I can't." She looked at Jeongyeon, her partner, the woman she loved, and saw a stranger driven by a fear so profound it was eclipsing her humanity. "We… we owe her that much, Jeongyeon. Just to look her in the eye. Please… Can’t you understand?"

"Owe her?" Jeongyeon’s voice was laced with venom. "We owe her nothing. Have you forgotten the scars on Momo's back? The ones she goes to painstaking lengths to hide? After ten years, she is still not ready to let people see them. You know what? I saw them last week. Her shirt rode up when she was reaching for a book on the high shelf, just for a second. The look on her face when she realized I’d seen them… Nayeon, the shame… it was devastating. Those scars are a road map of every single time Akari chose drugs over her daughter, and you want to lead the woman who drew that map right back to our door?"

Nayeon’s face crumpled, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. "I know, Jeongyeon. I see the shame, too, and it breaks my heart. But those memories are already inside her. One of these days, she is going to ask about her mother. She's going to want to know the real story. What do we tell her then?" Her voice grew stronger, fueled by a desperate certainty. "That woman is the key to our daughter's past. And she is paying for your sin with her life, every single day, and you won't even grant her the decency of looking her in the face?"

The accusation hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Jeongyeon turned away, her shoulders slumping as if under an immense weight. The anger in her voice was suddenly gone, replaced by a raw, ragged exhaustion.

“Nayeon… she took the fall. For us. For me. Do you understand what that means? The promise I made that night wasn't just to Momo. It was to Akari. I looked that woman in the eye, and I promised her that her sacrifice wouldn't be for nothing. That we would give Momo a good, safe life, away from all of this ugliness. That is how we repay her."

She turned back, her eyes shining with unshed tears and a fierce, desperate conviction. "Letting her back in… telling Momo the truth… that doesn't just break my promise to Akari. It invalidates her entire sacrifice. It sets fire to the last ten years of her life and ours. It puts everything—everything—at risk.”

"A promise built on a lie?" Nayeon whispered, her own heart breaking for the impossible position they were in. "How long can that protect anyone?"

"As long as it has to," Jeongyeon said, the hardness returning to her voice. "My sin was making sure the monster who gave Momo those scars would never hurt anyone again. And I will continue to protect our daughter, from him, from Akari, and even from your misguided pity. You weren't there! You didn't see what I saw! You didn't do what I did!"

The brutal, personal attack landed, silencing Nayeon completely. The chasm that had just opened between them was vast and terrifying.

Jeongyeon picked up her keys from the counter, the metallic jingle unnaturally loud in the tense quiet.

"I have to go to work." She walked to the door, not looking at Nayeon. "We’re not telling her. And we are not going to that hearing. That’s final."

The front door clicked shut, the deadbolt shooting home with a heavy, metallic thud that echoed through the house.

Nayeon stood frozen, listening as Jeongyeon's car started in the driveway and pulled away, the sound fading until all that was left was the hum of the refrigerator. She sank into a chair at the island, the adrenaline draining out of her, leaving a profound, hollow ache.

She was trapped. Trapped between the fierce, terrified love of her partner and the gut-wrenching plea of a broken woman to whom they owed an impossible debt. Trapped between a promise built on a lie and a truth that could destroy their daughter.

For ten years, they had chosen to protect the present by burying the past. But Nayeon could feel the earth beginning to shift beneath their feet. The ghost was no longer content to stay buried.

Chapter Text

Shoulders bumped against Momos, locker doors slammed with echoing finality, and laughter bounced off the tiled walls, but it all felt distant, like sounds coming from behind a thick pane of glass. Each strap of her backpack dug into her shoulders, a familiar, heavy weight that had little to do with textbooks today. She was just tired. A deep, hollowed-out exhaustion that sleep couldn’t fix.

Jeongyeon’s voice from this morning was a cold stone in her gut. It hadn’t been loud—it had been worse. Cold. The cop voice, the one that left no room for argument or explanation. “Two missed assignments, Momo. Mrs. Yoon is concerned. I’m concerned.”

But how could she explain it? How could she find the words to say that the paragraphs in the history textbook swam before her eyes, the letters like ants marching in the wrong direction? That trying to organize a single essay felt like trying to build a house in a hurricane? It was easier to just go quiet, to let the accusation of not trying hard enough settle over her, because trying to explain the static in her brain felt impossible. Especially now. How could she add one more problem to the mountain of “grown-up stuff” that was already crushing the air out of their house?

She was so lost in the memory that she didn’t see Dahyun until a flash of bright pink—a ridiculously oversized hoodie—detached itself from the chaos and fell into step beside her.

“Whoa, you look like absolute shit.”

Momo flinched, managing a weak, sarcastic smile. “Gee, thanks. You’re a ray of sunshine.”

“No, I’m serious,” Dahyun’s voice softened immediately, her teasing tone dissolving into pure concern. “Are you okay? You look… I don’t know. Like you haven’t slept in a week.”

Momo shrugged, pulling the strap of her backpack higher on her shoulder. “Just tired. Long night.” It was a flimsy excuse, and she knew her best friend could see right through it.

Dahyun’s eyes didn't leave her face. “Is it… home stuff?” her voice dropped so no one else could hear. “Or is it school stuff?”

The question gave Momo an out—a safer topic than the minefield of her family. She looked down at her worn sneakers. “School stuff,” she mumbled. “Mrs. Yoon emailed home about the two history assignments I missed.” She finally met Dahyun’s gaze, the shame of it hot on her cheeks. “Jeongyeon got the second email last night.”

“Oh, no.” Dahyun winced in sympathy. “The ‘concerned parent’ email. The absolute worst. Was it bad?”

Momo shook her head, a humorless laugh escaping her. “It wasn’t a yelling fight. It was worse. It was… the cop voice.” She saw Dahyun nod in immediate understanding. “The quiet, controlled, ‘I’m not angry, I’m deeply disappointed in your life choices’ voice.” She kicked at a loose floor tile with the toe of her sneaker. “And now I have to make up both of them by Friday and do an extra-credit essay on top of it.”

Dahyun’s eyes flashed with indignation. “Okay, that’s officially cruel and unusual punishment. From both of them.”

Just then, the warning bell shrieked overhead, and the river of students in the hallway turned into a rushing torrent. “Come on,” Dahyun said, grabbing Momo’s elbow and pulling her out of the main current into a small alcove by the art room’s trophy case.

With the crowd of students now hurrying past their little sanctuary, Dahyun fell silent. She leaned against the glass, her arms crossed, and stared at a point over Momo’s shoulder. Momo recognized the look instantly. It was Dahyun’s problem-solving face—the same one she got when debugging a line of code or figuring out the final move in a strategy game. Her brow was slightly furrowed, her eyes narrowed in concentration, and she chewed thoughtfully on her bottom lip.

Watching her, Momo felt a strange sense of calm settle over her. It was a marvel, really. Anyone else would have just said, "That sucks." But Dahyun was taking on the problem as if it were her own, turning the full force of her brilliant, orderly brain onto Momo’s chaos.

Finally, Dahyun’s eyes snapped back into focus, locking onto Momo’s with a new, steely resolve.

“Right. Forget that for now,” she commanded. “New plan. My place after school. We are going to demolish those assignments and that essay. I’ll bring the snacks—the good ones, not my mom’s healthy stuff—and you just bring your brain. We’ll use that new speech-to-text program I downloaded. It’ll be fine.”

The sheer force of Dahyun’s certainty was enough to make a knot Momo hadn’t even realized she was holding in her chest start to loosen.

“Dahyun, you don’t have to—”

“I absolutely do,” she cut in, her tone leaving no room for argument. Dahyun’s pinky hooked around Momo’s. “We got this.” She paused, a new idea brightening her features. “And you know what? I'm gonna text Tzuyu and see if she wants to come over, too. She's weirdly good at making those historical timeline things actually make sense. We'll make it a proper study group. Power in numbers.”

Momo just nodded, her throat suddenly too tight to speak. A sudden, startling wave of warmth washed through her, so potent it almost made her dizzy. After a morning spent feeling like a failure, a problem to be managed with disappointed voices, here was Dahyun. Dahyun, who didn't look at her like she was broken, but simply looked at the problem and said, we can fix this. The unwavering faith in her friend's eyes—the simple, unspoken certainty that Momo could do this with a little help—was a more powerful gift than she could ever explain. The thought made Momo’s stomach do a weird, tiny flip, a feeling that was both terrifying and wonderful.

Then the last warning bell shrieked overhead, jarring them both and breaking the spell. The remaining students in the hallway suddenly picked up speed.

“Come on,” Dahyun said, giving her hand a gentle tug. “We’re going to be late for Mrs. Kang.”

Dahyun kept their pinkies linked, pulling Momo along with her through the throng of students. They moved together, a tiny two-person island in the crowded sea. The simple, continued contact sent a quiet warmth spreading through Momo’s chest.

The quiet click of the turn signal was the only sound that broke the comfortable warmth inside the Mercedes as it glided to a stop at the curb. Outside, the autumn evening was settling in, the streetlights beginning to cast a soft glow on the pavement.

“Here you go,” Moonbyul said

Momo offered a smile that felt easy and genuine for the first time all day. The frantic knot of anxiety from this morning had been expertly untangled by hours of focused work, patient explanations, and the steady, reassuring presence of her friends. The weight in her backpack felt manageable now, replaced by the satisfying heft of a finished essay.

“Thanks again for everything, Moonbyul. The ride, the tteokbokki… all of it.”

“Anytime, sweetie. It’s what family is for,” Dahyun’s mother replied with an easy smile of her own. “You tell your moms we say hi.”

Momo nodded, pushing the heavy car door open. A rush of cool evening air, smelling of damp leaves and the faint hint of woodsmoke, met the warmth of the car’s interior. She stepped out onto the pavement and shut the door behind her with a solid, muffled thump.

Her steps felt light on the stone path leading to the house. On the top step, key not yet in hand, she paused and turned back.

The Mercedes was still there, idling patiently at the curb. Through the windshield, Momo could see Moonbyul’s silhouette waiting to make sure she got in safely. A hand lifted from the steering wheel in a small, final wave. Momo smiled, raising her own hand in response before turning to face the door. She heard the quiet purr of the engine recede down the street as she slid the key into the lock.

The key turned and the door swung open, and immediately a frantic thump-thump-thump from the entryway announced her official welcome.

“Boo!” Momo laughed, dropping her backpack as the little dog wiggled ecstatically around her ankles. She knelt, burying her face in the rough, familiar fur behind his ears, her good mood spilling over. “Hey, buddy, did you have a good day?”

Boo answered with a happy snort, his entire body a single, quivering expression of joy. She gave his scruffy head one last affectionate pat and stood up, still smiling.

It was only then, in the quiet aftermath of the happy greeting, that the profound stillness of the house finally crashed in on her. There was no low hum of the radio, no echo of Jeongyeon’s favorite playlist drifting down the hall; no talking, no sudden burst of laughter, not even the familiar clicking and clatter from the kitchen that signaled the start of their evening. The air felt thin, hollowed out.

Then she heard it—a faint, rhythmic scrape of metal on metal, coming from the kitchen. A sound so small and lonely it felt loud in the oppressive quiet.

The smile faded from her face, replaced by a familiar knot of caution. With Boo trotting faithfully at her heels, his nails making soft clicking sounds on the hardwood floor, she followed the sound down the hall.

She stopped at the threshold of the kitchen, pausing in the shadows of the doorframe to take in the scene. Boo sat dutifully by her ankle, sensing the shift in mood, his happy wiggling subdued to a watchful stillness. The room wasn't fully lit. Only the three pendant lights above the central island were on, casting stark pools of white light onto the empty countertops and leaving the rest of the room in deep shadow. The dining table, usually set for three by this time, was bare and dark. Worse, it was Thursday, their official family dinner night—a tradition that no one ever missed.

But only Nayeon stood at the stove, her back to the doorway. Her shoulders were slightly hunched as she stirred something in a pot with a slow, listless motion. She looked impossibly small and lonely in the bubble of light. Part of her wanted to back away, to retreat to the safety of her room and pretend she hadn’t seen this tableau of quiet misery. She was terrified that a single word, one wrong step into the fragile silence, might be enough to make her mom's slumped shoulders collapse entirely.

But the sight of her mom looking so adrift in their own kitchen, was a stronger pull than the fear. She couldn't leave her mom standing there alone.

"Hey, Mom," Momo said, her voice careful, quieter than she intended.

Nayeon startled, her shoulders jumping as if zapped by an electric current. She turned, and for a split second, Momo saw the raw, unguarded grief on her face before a watery, fragile smile was quickly pasted into place. It was a brittle thing, a mask that didn't quite cover the puffiness of her eyes or the pale, bloodless quality of her skin.

"Oh, hey, darling."

Momo suddenly felt awkward, so she let her gaze dart from Nayeon’s face to the pot on the stove and back again, unsure of where to safely look. Her hands felt clumsy and useless at her sides, so she knotted them together in front of her.

Sensing her daughter’s discomfort, Nayeon made an effort to smooth over the moment, wiping a hand on her jeans. "You just... you surprised me. I was just lost in thought." She gestured vaguely toward the stove with her wooden spoon, "Did you... have you eaten yet? I, uh, I tried making some kimchi fried rice."

Momo’s gaze followed the spoon to the pan on the stove. The rice looked… sad. A little mushy, the kimchi pieces cut into uneven chunks, the whole thing lacking the vibrant red colour of Jeongyeon’s version. The sight of it was a punch to the gut. Nayeon never cooked. That wasn’t an exaggeration; it was a well-established family fact. Cooking was Jeongyeon's territory, a domain of loud music, sizzling pans, and easy competence that Nayeon happily ceded. For her to be standing here, in front of this struggling pan of rice, meant she was trying, really trying, to hold a piece of their normal life together for Momo. It was a desperate, loving gesture.

"I... yeah," Momo said, hating the hesitation in her own voice, hating the wave of disappointment she saw pass through her mother’s shoulders. "Moonbyul insisted I stay for dinner. I'm sorry."

"Oh. Okay." Nayeon’s shoulders fell a fraction of an inch. She reached out and turned off the burner.

The silence that followed was heavy enough to suffocate. Momo couldn't stand it, couldn't bear the image of her mom standing alone in the too-bright kitchen. The words tumbled out of her before she could stop them. "Wait— I… I can eat some, I'm not that full, really. We just had an early dinner. I'll eat with you."

Nayeon turned back to her, and this time the mask was gone. Her face was a mess of relief and sorrow. A small, shaky exhale of air escaped her lips. "I'd like that, I'd really like that."

The raw vulnerability in that simple phrase broke through Momo’s own wall of awkwardness. The invisible line she kept between herself and the 'grown-up stuff'—the line that told her to stay quiet and not be a burden—crumbled into dust. This wasn't about some abstract problem anymore. This was about her mom, who had always been her safe harbor, looking completely lost at sea. And in that moment, an overwhelming wave of love washed away all of Momo's hesitation.

Forgetting everything else, she pushed off the doorframe and closed the distance in two steps. She reached out tentatively at first, just placing a hand on Nayeon's arm. Her mom’s skin was cool to the touch. But instead of pulling away, Nayeon’s head tilted slightly, her whole body seeming to soften and curve toward that simple point of contact. It was a silent surrender, an answer to a question Momo hadn't even known how to ask.

Momo slid her hand up Nayeon’s arm and wrapped her in a proper hug. It was a strange and wonderful feeling; sometime in the last year, she’d gotten taller than her mom, stronger too. She could feel the fragile tremble of Nayeon's shoulders beneath her hands as she stooped slightly, resting her cheek against the top of Nayeon's head and breathing in the familiar, clean scent of her shampoo.

For a second, Nayeon’s body was stiff with surprise. Then, a tremor went through her, a complete surrender. All the rigid lines of her posture seemed to dissolve as she folded into the embrace, her sigh a long, shuddering release of a breath she’d been holding all day. She buried her face in Momo’s shoulder, her hands gripping the back of her daughter's shirt.

A wet, messy, happy-sad laugh bubbled up from her chest. Momo felt the warmth of her mother's tears spreading through the fabric of her t-shirt. "Oh, my girl, my sweet little girl."

Momo’s own eyes stung. A fierce, protective love surged through her, so powerful it made her chest ache. She tightened her hold, rubbing slow, steady circles on Nayeon’s back, the way Nayeon used to do for her when she was small and scared.

“It’s okay, Mom,” she murmured into her hair, her voice soft but sure. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

They stood like that until the storm of sobs quieted into shaky breaths and sniffles. Nayeon’s grip on her loosened, and she slowly pulled back, her face tear-streaked and blotchy, but her eyes clearer than they’d been all evening. She let out a wet, shaky laugh.

“Sorry, honey,” she whispered, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Didn’t mean to fall apart on you.”

Momo shook her head, meeting her mom’s gaze with a steadiness that surprised even herself. “You never have to be sorry for that. Not with me.”

A fresh wave of love and gratitude washed over Nayeon’s face. She took one more deep, cleansing breath. “Okay,” she said, her voice finally steady. “Okay. Let’s eat, I will get you a plate.”

While Nayeon turned to the cupboard, Momo’s first move was toward the pantry. She opened the large plastic bin of dog food, the rattle of the scoop bringing Boo trotting over with an expectant look. She filled his bowl and set it on the floor, pausing to give his scruffy head an affectionate pat as he dove in. The sound of his happy crunching provided a comforting, normal rhythm to the quiet room. With Boo taken care of, Momo then went to the fridge and pulled out the pitcher of barley tea, pouring two glasses.

They met at the small kitchen table, a silent, coordinated dance of re-establishing normalcy. Nayeon spooned a modest portion of the kimchi fried rice onto Momo’s plate. It was a little dark around the edges, a testament to a distracted cook, but it smelled like home.

They ate in a comfortable silence for a few moments, the only sounds the soft clicks of their spoons against the ceramic bowls and Boo’s contented munching from his corner. The heavy, oppressive quiet from before was gone, replaced by a shared, fragile peace.

Nayeon watched her daughter, a wave of love so fierce it almost hurt. She wanted to ask about school, to know if the crushing weight she’d seen this morning had lifted at all, but she was terrified of shattering this fragile moment, but still, she should try.

“So… how- how was it at Dahyun’s? Was… was the homework okay?”

Momo swallowed a mouthful of rice, and a small smile touched her lips. “Yeah, it was good. Tzuyu came over, too. She’s like a walking encyclopedia, it’s kind of scary.” The smile widened as she remembered the easy laughter around the Kims' dining table. “Moonbyul made us tteokbokki. It was really good.”

“That was nice of them,” Nayeon replied, her own smile appearing on cue. "Is Mrs. Kang still making you guys analyze every single syllable of those sonnets? I remember Jeongyeon used to complain about her constantly."

"Yeah. We spent twenty minutes on one comma today."

The conversation fell flat, the effort too great. In the quiet that followed, Momo’s eyes began to wander around the room. It was Jeongyeon’s domain, really. This was where she’d usually be, leaning against the counter, telling a story from her day, her hearty laugh filling the space. But the room felt cavernously empty without her. Her work bag wasn't by the back door where she always dropped it. Her favorite oversized water bottle was missing from the counter. In all the years they had been a family, Jeongyeon had never, not once, missed it—not for exhaustion, not for sickness, not for a grueling double shift. Never.

Nayeon followed her gaze, her own expression softening with a pained understanding. She saw the dawning horror on Momo’s face, the unspoken question morphing into panic as she scanned the empty spaces. A long, tired sigh escaped Nayeon's lips. She knew she couldn't pretend any longer.

"Honey," she began. "Jeongyeon... she texted a little while ago. She's going to stay at Jihyo's tonight." Nayeon wouldn't meet her eyes, focusing instead on the pattern on the tablecloth. "It was a really long, stressful day at work. She just... needed some space to decompress."

The lie was paper-thin, and they both knew it. Jeongyeon didn't "decompress" at Jihyo's. She decompressed by watching sports documentaries at a deafening volume or taking their dog for a long run. This was different. This was an escape.

Momo's heart hammered against her ribs. A sick, sinking certainty washed over her. It was her fault. The logic was brutal and absolute: the email from Mrs. Yoon had led to the fight this morning, and the fight had led to this empty space at their table. The pattern was horribly familiar. She was the problem. Again.

But then, her gaze snagged on her mother’s hand where it rested on the table. It was trembling—a slight, almost imperceptible tremor.

And just like that, the frantic, buzzing storm of her own guilt receded, pushed away by a wave of something far more powerful: a deep, aching sadness. It wasn’t for herself. It was for Nayeon, who was trying so desperately to be the calm, steady parent, even as her own body betrayed the truth of her pain. She was trying to protect her, even now.

Without another thought, Momo reached across the small table, her own hand covering her mother's. "Okay, Mom. Thanks for telling me."

Still holding her mom’s hand, she gave it a gentle squeeze. “What about…” she began, her voice a little hoarse. “Do you… do you want to watch something? We could put on that show where they look at tiny houses in the countryside. Or that old drama with the guy you’re convinced is a time traveler because he looks exactly like your high school crush.”

For the first time all evening, the tightness around Nayeon’s eyes eased. A small, genuine smile touched her lips, softening the weary lines of her face.

“That… yeah, honey. That sounds really nice,” she said, squeezing Momo’s hand back. “And for the record, it’s not a conviction, it’s a fact. He is definitely a time traveler.”

A small, watery laugh escaped Momo in response, a sound of pure relief. The simple act of clearing the table felt different tonight, less like a chore and more like a quiet promise. As Momo rinsed the plates and Nayeon wiped down the counter, they moved around each other in a comfortable silence, a team of two shoring up their defenses against the long, empty evening ahead.

In the living room, Nayeon settled into the corner of the sofa. Momo grabbed the old, ridiculously soft fleece blanket from the back of the armchair and went to join her. She tucked her feet up onto the cushions, curling into the space beside her mom and resting her head on Nayeon’s shoulder.

Nayeon let out a soft sigh and draped the blanket over both of them, pulling it up to their chins and creating a warm, shared cocoon.

From his spot on the rug, Boo let out a soft, hopeful whine, his tail giving a tentative thump-thump against the floor. Nayeon looked down and patted the fleece-covered space created by Momo’s tucked-up legs.

“Alright, you big baby,” she murmured. “You can join us.”

With a happy little snort, Boo hopped onto the sofa. He circled twice on the soft blanket before collapsing right on top of Momo’s legs, his warm weight a comforting anchor pinning the blanket down. Momo’s hand came to rest on his back, her fingers stroking the familiar, rough texture of his fur as he let out a deep groan of contentment.

The soft glow of the television screen filled the quiet room as the show's opening music began to play. The world outside their warm cocoon could wait. With the steady presence of her mom beside her and the trusting weight of their little dog on top of their blanket, Momo felt a profound sense of peace settle over her.

But the peace was fragile. As the show’s familiar characters chatted on screen, Momo’s mind couldn't help but drift back to the cavernous hole in their family. After a few minutes, she shifted, turning her face into Nayeon’s shoulder so her voice was a muffled, hesitant whisper.

“Mom?”

“Hmm?” Nayeon murmured, her eyes still on the screen.

“Is… Is Jeongyeon gone because of me?” The question came out in a rush of air, laced with a shame so deep it felt like it was physically lodged in her throat. “Because of the history stuff? The email?”

Nayeon’s body went rigid beneath her. A cold, sharp pain lanced through her chest, stealing her breath. No. The word was a silent scream in her mind. Not this again. Not this fear. All the years of careful love, of gentle reassurances, of building a world where Momo would never have to feel like a burden—it all felt like it was dissolving in this one whispered question. The old ghost was back, the one that told their daughter she was the cause of every problem, the reason people left. And it was their fault. Her and Jeongyeon's. How can we keep failing her like this? How can I never get this right?

Her arm, which had been resting loosely around Momo, tightened with a desperate strength. It took a moment before she could trust her own voice. “Oh, Momo, no.” She pulled back just enough to look Momo in the eye, her own gaze swimming with unshed tears. “Never, ever think that. Look at me.”

Momo reluctantly met her gaze.

“This has absolutely nothing to do with you. Do you hear me? Nothing. Jeongyeon and I… we had a fight. A stupid grown-up disagreement about grown-up things. This is on us. It is our fault, not yours.”

The words were a lifeline, but the cold dread was already coiling in Momo’s stomach. It was an old, familiar feeling, a ghost from a childhood she couldn’t fully remember but could never fully escape: the chilling fear that she was the problem. She gave a small, jerky nod, accepting the words because she had to, because arguing felt impossible.

But the fear lingered.

She tucked her head back down against Nayeon’s shoulder, making herself small. “Okay,” she whispered. A beat of silence passed. “Can I… can I sleep with you tonight? In your bed?”

Nayeon’s heart broke all over again. She pulled Momo impossibly closer, stroking her hair and kissing the top of her head, as if she could physically shield her from all the hurt in the world.

“Of course, baby,” she whispered, her voice fierce and protective. “Of course you can. Always.”

The digital clock on the nightstand glowed a soft red: 2:17 AM. Outside, the world was silent, the only light in the bedroom a pale, milky wash from the streetlamp filtering through the curtains. Beside Nayeon, Momo slept soundly, a faint, whistling snore escaping her lips with every exhale. It was a sound that should have been comforting, a sign that her daughter finally felt safe enough to rest. But tonight, it was a painful reminder of why she was here in the first place.

Nayeon lay perfectly still, staring at the shifting shadows on the ceiling, her mind a churning sea of regret. The fight with Jeongyeon played on a relentless loop, the words still sharp enough to cut.

“It puts everything—everything—at risk!”

“A promise built on a lie? How long can that protect anyone?”

“As long as it has to.”

The quiet, devastating finality of the front door closing after those words made Nayeon’s chest ache all over again.

Careful not to jostle the mattress, she reached over to the nightstand, her fingers closing around the cold shape of her phone. She drew it under the blanket, shielding the sudden glare of the screen from Momo’s sleeping face. Her thumb swiped past notifications until she found the message thread, her heart sinking as she read the last text from Jeongyeon. It was even colder than she remembered.

Staying at Jihyo's. I need to be somewhere I'm not being attacked for trying to keep our daughter safe. Don't call.

She stared at the words, reading them over and over, searching for a hint of softness that wasn’t there. There was no apology, no opening for a reply. Just a wall. A fresh wave of tears pricked at her eyes, and she bit down on her lip, swallowing the sob that threatened to escape.

With a shaky finger, she pressed the side button, plunging the world back into darkness. She was alone again, with nothing but the shadows and the soft, innocent snores of the daughter they were both trying, and failing, to protect.

Chapter Text

The heat was a shock against Jeongyeon’s cold skin. The mug of peppermint tea Jihyo handed her felt scalding, and she gripped it, letting the ceramic burn the tips of her fingers just a little before she flinched back. The sharp sting of physical pain was a welcome distraction from the dull, persistent ache in her chest.

“I’m sorry it’s the couch,” Jihyo whispered, as she settled into the armchair opposite. She pulled a heavy knitted blanket around her shoulders and gave Jeongyeon a look of deep sympathy, her dark eyes reflecting the dim light of the living room. “Still haven’t managed to finish the guest room. You know how it is…”

Jeongyeon managed a weak, lopsided smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s fine. I just needed… out. Away from the argument. Away from the feeling that I’m failing everyone.”

Jihyo nodded, reaching over to gently close the French doors leading to the hallway. Sana and Tzuyu had been asleep for hours upstairs, wrapped in the innocent silence of a normal, uncomplicated life.

“She’s not wrong, you know,” Jihyo said after a while, carefully not mentioning Nayeon by name, but the meaning was clear. “About Momo having a right to know.”

Jeongyeon closed her eyes, tilting her head back against the worn leather of the sofa. “A right? Momo has a right to be happy, Jihyo. To feel safe. And I am damn sure that woman’s reappearance takes all of that away.”

The silence stretched with unsaid history. Jihyo was the only person outside of their marriage who knew the full truth of what had happened ten years ago—that Jeongyeon had pulled the trigger, that Akari had sacrificed her life to a prison cell to save the woman who had saved her daughter.

“I was ready,” Jeongyeon whispered finally. She opened her eyes, staring blindly at the ceiling fan. “I was ready to go to prison. I’d made peace with it. I killed a monster. End of story. And Akari… she made it so it wasn't.”

“She gave you a life with Momo,” Jihyo countered gently. “A life she knew her daughter deserved. And now, she’s asking for something back.”

Jeongyeon shook her head vehemently. “No. She’s asking to dismantle everything we built. Nayeon is naive. She thinks ten years in a cage is some kind of magic fix for being a neglectful, selfish mother who stood by while her kid was brutalized. What if she tells Momo the truth about Sangmin? What if she tells her that I killed him?”

She leaned forward, clutching the mug so tightly her knuckles went white, the burning heat long forgotten. Her breath hitched. “Momo doesn’t even know he’s dead, Jihyo. She hasn’t asked for him once. We let that memory die. And if Akari tells her, she won’t just be a woman who abandoned her, she’ll be a woman who went to prison for her police officer mom. A criminal who saved a cop. How will Momo process that? How will she ever look at me—at us—the same way? She'll realize all that safety we built was resting on a decade of silence. She'll see me not as her protector, but as a coward and a liar. We lied to her for years!”

Jihyo scooted her chair closer. “No, Jeongyeon, she loves you. You are her mother. Not just by law, but in her heart. Akari is a shadow from a nightmare she barely remembers.” Jihyo reached out, laying a firm, reassuring hand on Jeongyeon's arm. “You have to let go of that fear, Jeong. Momo has watched you fight for her, comfort her, and love her every single day for eleven years. She will be confused, she will be hurt, but she will never stop trusting the woman who raised her and kept her safe. Momo will always love you. You are her mother, and nothing Akari says can change that truth.”

“But shadows can hurt you,” Jeongyeon insisted, her voice tight with panic. “She’s only sixteen and already she’s struggling. The dyslexia is back to biting her, she’s missing assignments, she’s closed herself off. She’s running from us when we try to talk to her. This is not the time to drop a bombshell like this on her. I won't do it. I will not risk breaking my daughter’s heart or watching her trust in us shatter, all for Nayeon’s misguided, bleeding-heart wish for ‘redemption’.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “I’m scared, Jihyo. I’m scared that if we open that door, even just an inch, it’ll be enough to let the trauma back in. It’ll let Sangmin back in. And I have to keep my daughter safe. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

Jihyo squeezed Jeongyeon’s hand. “I know, Jeong. I know you do. And Nayeon does, too. You both want the same thing, you just have two different ideas of how to get there.”

She leaned a little closer, her eyes locked onto Jeongyeon’s. “That’s why you have to talk to her. You can’t leave her hanging like that, Jeongyeon. It just creates a new rift, and that’s just as dangerous as the letter. You cannot retreat. You two are fighting for the same goal, but you need to align on the strategy.”

“But what if I can’t change her mind?” Jeongyeon argued, the logic of her own fear overriding Jihyo’s advice. “What if she goes ahead with this anyway? It’s her daughter, too. I can’t force her to choose my way.”

“Then you make a plan together for Momo’s sake,” Jihyo insisted gently. She shifted the blanket higher over Jeongyeon’s knees. “You decide how to handle Momo’s struggles first. You need to present a united front for her. Promise me you’ll talk to Nayeon tomorrow right after work. Don’t let this silence become another secret between you two.”

Jeongyeon hesitated, looking down at their joined hands. She felt the heavy resistance of her own fear. “I try, I promise. I’ll will leave work early and talk to Nayeon,” Jeongyeon finally agreed.

“Good,” Jihyo murmured, relieved. She gave Jeongyeon’s hand one last firm squeeze. “Now, look. You don’t have to solve this right now, tonight. Just rest. I’ve got the watch.”

The tea was lukewarm now. Jeongyeon pulled a deep, shuddering breath into her lungs, the scent of peppermint doing little to calm the anxiety churning beneath her ribs. She was running, not just from the argument, but from the fear of failing her daughter, of the secret finally coming out and destroying the peace they had fought so hard to find.

“Thank you, Jihyo,” Jeongyeon murmured. “For being… for being my person. It makes it… survivable.”

Jihyo gave her a small, tight, affectionate smile. “Always, my friend.” She began to rise, pulling the thick, knitted blanket up to Jeongyeon’s chin. “Now, sleep.”

Just as Jihyo stood, a soft, sleepy sound echoed from the hallway and Sana, her hair mussed into a soft halo, appeared in the doorway, rubbing one eye with the back of her hand. She wore an oversized t-shirt and looked utterly bewildered by the dim light downstairs.

“Jihyo? What are you doing? Is everything okay?”

Jihyo’s posture immediately softened. She glided across the short space to her wife, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Everything’s fine, baby, Jeongyeon just needed a change of scenery for the night.” Jihyo gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind Sana's ear.

Sana blinked, her brow furrowing slightly, as if trying to reconcile the quiet tension she sensed with Jihyo's calm tone. She spotted Jeongyeon curled up under the thick blanket on the leather sofa. “Oh! Jeongyeonnie. You look exhausted. Did you and Nayeon have a big fight?” she asked, the question direct yet mumbled with sleepiness. “Hope you sleep well.”

“You too, Sana,” Jeongyeon whispered, her gaze fixed on the ceiling.

Jihyo gave Jeongyeon a last final look. “Goodnight, Jeong. Try to let it go for a few hours.” Then, she gently steered Sana toward the stairs, the banister railing gleaming faintly in the dim light. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”

Jeongyeon watched them go, the sight of Sana’s innocent, sleepy obliviousness a sharp contrast to the turmoil in her own heart. She closed her eyes, allowing the quiet house to finally swallow her into a troubled sleep, left alone to wrestle with the letter, the lie, and the terrible, relentless weight of being a parent.

The early light of morning, diffused and hazy, did little to dispel the fatigue settled deep in Jeongyeon’s bones. She blinked slowly, the thick, knitted blanket feeling like a lead weight. For a second, she didn't know where she was then the sight of the familiar, slightly too-formal living room brought the memory of last night flooding back—the fight, the letter, Jihyo’s warmth.

She mumbled a groan and tried to shift, only to realize she was being stared at.

A figure was standing perfectly still about five feet from the end of the sofa, arms crossed over a school sweatshirt. It was Tzuyu. At fifteen, she was already tall, with the quiet, observant nature of someone who took in far more than she let on. Her expression was completely unreadable, a classic teenager mix of curiosity and mild annoyance at having her space invaded.

“Morning, Aunt Jeongyeon.”

Jeongyeon pushed herself up on one elbow, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Morning, kiddo. Didn’t realize I had an audience.”

“You breathe loudly,” Tzuyu informed her, deadpan.

Jeongyeon managed a tired smile. “Noted. Is that a scientific observation or a complaint?”

“Observation,” Tzuyu confirmed. She tilted her head, her gaze sharp. “Is everything okay with you and Aunt Nayeon?”

Jeongyeon’s heart gave a quick, painful thump. Of course the overnight stay meant an interrogation from the house's most astute observer. “Yeah, sweetie. Everything is fine. Just needed a night away to clear my head. Grown-up stuff.”

Tzuyu didn’t look entirely convinced, but she didn't press. Instead, she pointed a finger toward the kitchen. “Eomma’s making French toast and she said you need coffee right now or you might die.”

Jeongyeon gratefully threw the blanket aside and sat up. “Your Eomma is a genius.”

She followed Tzuyu’s retreating form toward the kitchen, and the sudden immersion into the family chaos was immediate. The kitchen was bright and smelled wonderfully of cinnamon and maple syrup, but it also looked like a small tornado had passed through.

And Sana was the epicenter of the blast. Her hair was sticking up in three different directions, and she was frantically searching through a drawer while balancing a piece of toast in her mouth.

“Did anyone see my keys?” she chirped around the toast. “The cute bunny keychain ones? I swore I left them right here—”

“Sana-yah, they’re in the fruit bowl,” Jihyo said calmly from the stove, flipping a slice of golden French toast. She was already dressed in work attire, looking impossibly put together despite the morning madness. She glanced up at Jeongyeon, her eyes conveying instant, quiet support. “See? Saved your life. Coffee is right here.”

Jeongyeon gratefully accepted the massive mug Jihyo offered. The dark, bitter liquid was exactly what she needed.

“Good morning, Jeongyeonnie!” Sana finally spotted her, pulling the keys from the fruit bowl with a triumphant shout. “Sorry about the mess. I’m already late. You slept well, right?”

“Like a log,” Jeongyeon lied easily, taking a long, bracing sip of coffee. She glanced at Jihyo, who only offered a small, knowing smirk before turning back to the stove.

Sana grabbed her bright pink work bag and gave Jihyo a loud peck on the cheek. “Gotta run! Love you both!” She paused only to give Tzuyu a massive, dramatic hug. “Have a great day, sweetie! Study hard!” And then she was gone, the front door slamming shut with a finality that briefly silenced the kitchen.

Jeongyeon sat down at the small dining table, the scent of the toast and maple syrup doing little to ease the anxiety in her stomach. The contrast between the simple, comforting rhythm of this household and the heavy reality waiting for her at home was jarring.

“What time do you need to leave for school, Tzuyu?” she tried to keep her tone light, tracing the rim of her coffee mug with her finger.

“In thirty minutes,” Tzuyu replied, looking up from her plate. “Dahyun and Momo are meeting me at the corner.”

The mention of her daughter’s name tightened the knot in Jeongyeon’s chest. Her voice grew more focused, steering away from casual small talk.

“Momo’s been spending a lot of time with you lately, hasn’t she? With Dahyun, too,” she stirred her coffee idly to avoid looking at Tzuyu directly. “She’s so focused on her grades. Has anything… changed with the work? Is anyone giving her trouble? You know how kids can be jerks about having to read out loud sometimes, especially with the dyslexia.”

Tzuyu slowly lowered her fork, her sharp eyes instantly meeting Jeongyeon’s. She knew exactly what her aunt was asking—not about general school stress, but about the specific, quiet retreat Momo had been making.

“She’s tired,” Tzuyu stated simply. “And stressed. Mrs. Yoon’s class is intense, and the workload is a lot. Sometimes she just… struggles. Dahyun and I try to help, but when she shuts down, she really shuts down.”

“Shutting down how?” Jeongyeon prompted gently, leaning forward slightly, her anxiety creeping into her tone.

“She gets quiet. She won’t talk about the assignments,” Tzuyu explained, picking up her fork again. “It’s like the page is just a wall she can’t get through. She says she’s fine, but she avoids looking at us when she says it.” Tzuyu met Jeongyeon's gaze directly. “But she's always like that when she gets stuck, Aunt Jeongyeon. It’s just getting worse now because the work is harder. You know that.”

Tzuyu’s answer was honest, but it offered no comfort, only confirmation that the dyslexia was worsening and Momo was retreating further into herself, just as Jeongyeon feared.

Jeongyeon took a slow, deliberate breath, forcing herself to smile. “Yeah, I do. Thanks, sweetie. I appreciate you looking out for her. Just checking in.”

She pushed the French toast aside. Her appetite had vanished. She stood up, walking her empty coffee mug to the counter where Jihyo was wiping down the chrome of the stove.

“Did you get what you needed?” Jihyo murmured, her eyes dark and serious as she took the mug, noting the tight, worried line around Jeongyeon's mouth.

“I dont’t know but it’s worse than the email suggested,” Jeongyeon sighed, leaning her hip against the counter. “She’s hiding. The missed assignments are just the symptom. I need to get home and talk to Nayeon.”

Jihyo gave her a brief, reassuring squeeze on the arm. “Go. But Jeongyeon, remember your promise. Remember what we said last night: you both want the same thing. Don't let the fight be bigger than the goal.”

Jeongyeon sighed, the sound heavy, and nodded. “I’ll head to the station now, clear my head with some work, and then I’ll go home and talk to Nayeon about all of it. About Momo first, before we even touch that letter. That’s the only way we stand a chance of fixing this.”

Jihyo stepped forward and pulled Jeongyeon into a quick hug. “That’s all you can do, Jeong. Call me after work. Good luck.”

Jeongyeon pulled back, then turned and walked past the dining table where Tzuyu was still finishing her toast. She paused beside her niece and gently placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Take care today, kiddo,” Jeongyeon murmured. “And thanks for the intel.”

Tzuyu looked up, her expression softening just a fraction beneath her usual calm facade. “You too, Aunt Jeongyeon.”

Jeongyeon nodded, meeting Tzuyu’s gaze, then exchanged one last meaningful look with Jihyo across the room—a final, silent pact. She then walked to the front entrance, found her heavy police boots, pulled them on with a familiar tug, and stepped out into the crisp, cold air of the morning. Leaving the sweet, safe chaos of Jihyo’s home behind, the walk back to her car felt like the walk toward an unavoidable confrontation, and the only thing heavier than her police belt was the terrible, persistent weight of the secret she carried.

The familiar sound of Jeongyeon’s key turning in the lock of the front door was the first sound of her return home, hours later. Her shift had been a blur of paperwork and patrols, a necessary distraction, but the knot of anxiety had only tightened over the day. A message from Sana had told her Nayeon had called out sick from the kindergarten. She was home, alone, and clearly still reeling from the fight.

Jeongyeon dropped her heavy gear bag just inside the door and carefully placed her keys in the ceramic bowl on the entryway table. She pulled off her heavy boots, their thud echoing slightly in the silent house before she continued in stocking feet. She paused in the hallway, peering into the kitchen on the right. It was empty, the unwashed mugs on the counter and the untouched sink bearing silent witness to Nayeon’s distress.

She moved further, tiptoeing into the living room on the left. There, she found Nayeon curled up on the couch, tucked almost entirely under a thick, cream-colored duvet. The coffee table next to her held a crumpled pile of used Kleenex. Only the top of her head and a sliver of her face were visible.

Jeongyeon approached quietly, her feet silent on the wooden floor. She knelt down beside the couch, resting her elbows on the cushion near her feet. Looking closely, she could see the evidence of Nayeon’s long day of sorrow beneath the duvet’s protective mound: her sleep shorts and oversized t-shirt were visible beneath the gap at the neck.

Nayeon was deeply asleep, her breathing shallow and steady, but the fragile peace of her slumber was betrayed by her face. Her eyelids were slightly swollen, and her cheeks held a dull redness—she’d clearly been crying for a long time. Her silky hair was a mess, strands sticking to her cheek. She looked small, vulnerable, and utterly broken.

The sight instantly disarmed Jeongyeon. Her defensiveness dropped. This wasn't the stubborn wife demanding an emotional risk; this was her partner, hurting and exhausted. They were on opposite sides of the argument, but the fight had wounded them both equally.

Jeongyeon reached out a tentative hand and gently brushed a loose strand of hair off Nayeon’s face. The skin beneath was warm and slightly damp.

“Nayeon-ah,” she murmured. “Love, I’m home.”

Nayeon’s eyes fluttered open slowly, resisting the light. She squinted, her vision heavy with residual sleep and the sting of tears. She blinked once, twice, her focus gradually sharpening on Jeongyeon, who was kneeling beside the couch. The sight of her wife—unarmed, regretful, and physically present—cracked the emotional dam Nayeon had held all day. Her lip began to tremble almost imperceptibly, and her lips parted, perhaps to ask where she had been or renew the argument, but the fight drained out of her expression. Relief, sharp and sudden, washed over her face.

“You didn’t go to work,” Jeongyeon murmured, regret heavy in her voice.

Nayeon’s lip trembled slightly. “Called in sick. Didn’t feel right pretending everything’s fine with twenty kids when it’s not at home.” She paused, her voice low and raspy from sleep and crying. “Did you tell Jihyo the truth? About why you were there?”

“Yes. She knows everything, of course,” Jeongyeon confirmed. She moved to sit beside Nayeon on the couch, slipping one arm under Nayeon’s neck, carefully gathering her wife into her chest. She drew the duvet and Nayeon together into a tight embrace, enveloping them both in the thick warmth.

Nayeon let out a small, tired gasp and instantly melted against Jeongyeon, burying her face into the soft fabric of her undershirt. The tension that had rigidified her body for hours seemed to bleed away. The familiar scent of Jeongyeon’s skin, faint with soap and the clean, metallic smell of police work, was instantly comforting.

Jeongyeon kissed the top of Nayeon's head, running her hand soothingly over the messy silk of her hair. She struggled for words; her natural inclination toward control making emotional vulnerability difficult, but she tried.

“I’m sorry,” Jeongyeon murmured against Nayeon's ear. “I shouldn’t have walked out. I just… I panicked. Every time something touches that part of our life, the old fear, I feel like I can’t breathe. I took it out on you. That was unfair.”

Nayeon tightened her grip around Jeongyeon’s waist, the apology clearly received. “I know,” she said, her voice muffled. “I know you did. You always think protecting her means locking everything away. But she’s not a little girl anymore. She’s sixteen, and she knows when we’re hiding things.”

“I know that too,” Jeongyeon conceded, running her hand soothingly over Nayeon’s messy hair. “I just—she’s happy. Finally happy. And I’m terrified of ruining it.”

Nayeon looked up, her puffy eyes full of worry, shaking her head slowly. “But that’s it, Jeongyeon. She’s not really happy right now. I don't think she has been for weeks. She… she asked me if she could sleep in our bed again last night. She hasn’t done that since she was ten. I fear she’s hiding something far bigger than a missed assignment. Something bad is making her regress.”

Jeongyeon’s breath hitched at the severity of the fear in Nayeon’s eyes. “Do you have any idea what it could be? I asked Tzuyu, but she didn’t know anything.”

Nayeon sighed, resting her head back against Jeongyeon's shoulder. “I honestly don’t know. That's the terrifying part. She just shrugs everything off. In my class, when a child shuts down like that, it's usually because they feel completely overwhelmed. Like the pressure is too much, or they feel unsafe. And the sleeping in our bed... that's pure regression for comfort. The dyslexia is just what's visible.”

“Then the priority is to make Momo talk to us. To figure out what is happening beneath the surface,” Jeongyeon affirmed, her police instincts kicking in, focused on threat assessment. “We need her to feel safe enough to open up.”

Nayeon nodded, leaning back into the security of the embrace.

“Where is Momo?”

“She went to Dahyun’s house straight after school,” Nayeon replied. “She should be home any minute now; they wanted to work on something together.”

Jeongyeon let out a long sigh of relief. “Good. Then I’m going to make her favorite dinner. Jjimdak. We’ll talk to her, together, after she’s eaten. We need to be a team for her first.”

Nayeon squeezed Jeongyeon’s hand, the movement tentative, before she finally hesitated and spoke the words hanging in the air. “What about the letter? What are we going to do?”

Jeongyeon stiffened slightly, dragged instantly back to the precipice of their argument. She let out a deep, heavy sigh. She couldn't, wouldn't, touch that subject right now.

“It’s sitting on the kitchen counter, Jeongyeon,” Nayeon pressed. “I haven’t moved it since yesterday. It’s not going away. We have to decide, soon, if we even respond to Akari’s lawyer.”

Jeongyeon kissed the top of Nayeon's head. "Shh," she whispered. “I don’t know. My answer is still no. But we’ll talk about it. Just… not today. That can wait until we know our daughter is okay.”

The question was deflected, but the tension lingered, tucked beneath the duvet with them. The immediate fight was over, giving way to the fragile, more tender reality of their enduring connection.

Jeongyeon reluctantly untangled herself from Nayeon, pressing one last kiss to her forehead. "Stay here for a minute. Get warm. I'll start the Jjimdak."

Nayeon simply squeezed Jeongyeon’s hand in acknowledgment, letting her go.

Jeongyeon moved into the kitchen, the familiar choreography of cooking instantly soothing her frayed nerves. She pulled chicken and vegetables from the refrigerator, found the cast iron pot—Momo’s favorite—and placed it on the stove.The aroma of simmering stock soon began to fill the quiet house, a fragile attempt at normalcy.

Nayeon soon joined her, moving slowly but deliberately. She rinsed one of the forgotten mugs in the sink, the quiet sound of running water joining the gentle sizzle from the stove. The simple act of sharing the space felt like a crucial step toward rebuilding their normal.

Jeongyeon was adding the stock when the front door latch rattled, followed by the cheerful, loud sound of a teenager tumbling into the entryway, accompanied by a quick, sharp bark of farewell.

"Bye, Dahyun! Bye, Yongsun!" Momo's voice, though a little flat, was audible from the front hall.

"See ya, Momoring! Don't let your parents lecture you too hard!" Dahyun called back, her tone playful.

The door shut. A moment later, Momo's shoes were kicked off near the entrance, and she walked into the house, her backpack slung low over one shoulder. Boo trotted silently at her heels, having just given his customary loud, loyal goodbye to the friends. Momo stopped short when she saw both her mothers in the kitchen. She knew Jeongyeon often worked a late shift on Wednesdays, and the fact that she’d been at Jihyo’s house the previous night added a layer of uncertainty to the current scene.

"Hi," Momo mumbled, dropping her backpack with a soft thud near the dining table. "I thought you were working late."

"I changed shifts this afternoon to come home early," Jeongyeon said, offering a warm smile, though the slight, cold distance in Momo's tone did not escape her. "Figured Jjimdak sounded better than take-out."

The smell of soy and garlic should have coaxed a smile out of Momo, but she only gave a vague nod. Before she could retreat upstairs, Nayeon wiped her hands on a towel and crossed the room, pulling her daughter into a firm, almost desperate hug.

"I missed you," Nayeon murmured into her daughter's hair, holding her close.

Momo hugged her back, momentarily closing her eyes as she leaned into the comfort of her Mom’s embrace for a long, necessary moment.

When Nayeon finally released her, she brushed a thumb over the edge of Momo’s cheek, searching her daughter’s face as though reading something written there. "How was practice today? The weather looked freezing."

Momo shrugged, retrieving her backpack. "Coach made us run extra laps. It was fine."

"Did you score any goals?" Jeongyeon asked, testing the space between them with familiar ground. Soccer had always been their shared passion, their unspoken language.

Momo looked down, toeing the tile. “Just one. It was nothing.”

Jeongyeon caught the way her daughter’s voice thinned at the edges — not defiant, but drained.

"Go wash up,” Nayeon said gently, touching Momo’s arm. “Dinner will be ready soon. We’ll eat together.”

Momo nodded without protest, turning for the stairs. Boo followed, tail wagging once before disappearing behind her. The house was quiet again, save for the slow bubbling of the pot on the stove.

Jeongyeon exhaled and set down the ladle. Her eyes drifted, unbidden, to the kitchen counter — to the single white envelope lying beside the fruit bowl. The paper was thick, creased once down the middle, stamped with the official insignia of the Seoul Women’s Correctional Facility in stark black ink. The government seal in the corner was half smudged, as though from travel or damp fingers.

It was impossible not to see.

When Momo had walked through the doorway a minute ago, she’d passed within inches of it — close enough for Jeongyeon’s pulse to jump

Nayeon stepped beside her, following Jeongyeon’s line of sight. “She’s hiding something, Jeongyeon. I feel it.”

Jeongyeon didn’t answer right away. She stared at the return address — the institutional typeface, the small barcode, the faint hand-signed “Akari.”

“I know,” she said finally. “That’s why we need to talk to her.”

She reached out and picked up the envelope. The paper crinkled slightly under her fingers. Without breaking eye contact with Nayeon, she opened the utility drawer next to the cutlery — the one with all the loose batteries, measuring tape, and stray keys — and slipped the letter beneath the folded tea towels.

The sound of the drawer sliding shut was small but final.

Nayeon stood close behind her, wrapping her arms around Jeongyeon’s waist, resting her chin against her shoulder. Jeongyeon leaned back into her automatically, her body softening into the familiar warmth even as her eyes stayed fixed on the closed drawer.

“We are united, okay?” Jeongyeon murmured, her voice barely above a breath. “The letter doesn’t exist right now. Only Momo.”

Nayeon nodded, her eyes flicking toward the ceiling where the faint creak of Momo’s footsteps moved across the floorboards.

The three of them were seated at the dining table. The cast iron pot of fragrant Jjimdak sat between them, surrounded by smaller dishes of kimchi and danmuji. The atmosphere was deliberately warm—a fragile, forced domesticity meticulously constructed to mask the unbearable, silent tension that had gripped the house for weeks, a tension that felt like suffocating static in the air.

Momo was merely pushing food around her bowl, her fork dissecting a piece of chicken she had no intention of eating. She offered short, brittle, polite answers to Nayeon's relentlessly easy questions about her friends, each word a carefully placed stone in the wall she was building around herself. Jeongyeon watched her daughter's guarded profile, her gaze tracing the faint, bruised-looking shadows beneath her eyes—shadows that spoke of sleepless nights and a weariness that had nothing to do with adolescence.

"The Jjimdak is really good, Mom," Momo managed and focused intently on pushing a piece of potato around the rim of her bowl, her eyes fixed on the task.

"Thank you, sweetie," Jeongyeon replied, her own voice tight with unasked questions. She risked a glance at Nayeon, who gave a nearly imperceptible nod, a silent, pained agreement. It was time to try again.

Nayeon cleared her throat, the small sound unnaturally loud in the strained silence. She rested her hands on the table, her fingers laced together. "Love, listen to us," she began. "We talked about the email from Mrs. Yoon yesterday, and we are so, so sorry that conversation went so badly. We... we handled it poorly. But we just need to understand what's happening. You missed two major assignments, Mo. You've never done that before."

Momo’s fork clattered softly onto her plate, the metallic sound sharp as a slap. Her small shoulders tensed, and she finally looked up, her expression a careful, agonizing mixture of cornered guilt and brittle defiance. "I... I already t-told you," she said, her voice catching slightly. "I was going to do them. It's fine. It was just... it was a lot of running with soccer and dancing. I was tired."

"Tired, or overwhelmed?" Nayeon countered softly, her heart aching at the obvious lie. "You haven't been yourself, honey. You asked to sleep in our bed last night. You haven't done that since you were little." Her eyes softened with a deep, knowing sadness. "That's a sign, baby. It's a sign you're searching for comfort because you don't feel entirely safe or okay right now. And that's our fault for not seeing it sooner."

Momo's face closed off instantly, the defiance hardening her soft features into a mask of fury. "I'm fine," she bit out. "Stop making a big deal out of stupid homework!"

"It is a big deal when you feel like you have to hide it from us," Jeongyeon interjected, her voice dangerously quiet, the gentleness gone, replaced by a low, simmering frustration. "We know how frustrating the dyslexia is. We just want to get you help. Is Mrs. Yoon making things harder?"

Momo flinched at the change in tone. She bit her lip, her gaze darting between her mothers before fixing on the Jjimdak pot. The defensive wall was visibly starting to crack, the anger dissolving to reveal the raw, profound shame beneath.

"She... she keeps making me stay after class," Momo began. "She says she knows I 'struggle,' but... but she thinks I'm lazy. She told me... 'Momo, your scholarship is for excellence, not for excuses. You need to work twice as hard to prove you deserve it.'" Her breath hitched, "So she g-gives me... extra worksheets. She says they're 'practice' to help me catch up, but they're... they're too much, Mom. It's like... it's like she's punishing me for being slow. And I'm so scared to tell her no because of the scholarship."

She took a shuddering breath, the memory of the most recent humiliation rising. "And then... then this week... Mrs. Yoon handed out a pop quiz. She said it so loud, right in front of the group, 'Everyone, you have ten minutes. Momo, you can have fifteen.'"

Nayeon and Jeongyeon exchanged a confused, angry glance. "That's her accommodation, honey..." Nayeon started.

"But it wasn't!" Momo choked out, the tears finally starting to fall. "After only ten minutes, she just... she collected everyone else's paper. 'Okay, group, let's discuss.' And she just... looked at me. Sitting there, with my paper still on my desk. Like... 'What are you going to do?' I couldn't... I couldn't be the only one still working, so I... I just had to give her my empty paper. Everyone saw. They all knew I didn't finish. I looked so stupid."

She was sobbing now, the words tumbling out. "I'm drowning in her 'help,' Mom. And I... I missed the real assignments because I was so busy trying to do her extra ones, and I just... I can't. I can't keep up. I feel so stupid, and I'm tired of feeling like I'm the problem."

Nayeon instantly reached across the table, covering Momo's hand. "Oh, baby. You are not stupid. She is... that is cruel. You are the furthest thing from it. She had no right. She had no right to say that. We will deal with Mrs. Yoon. I promise you, we will deal with her."

"But I am closed off," Momo whispered, the confession a tiny, broken sound. Her body seemed to cave in on itself, her shoulders hunching forward as she became suddenly small. She squeezed her eyes shut, and the tears she’d been fighting began to slip past her lids, tracking silently down her face. "And... and it's not just Mrs. Yoon. Sometimes—"

Momo stopped, a sharp, gasping intake of breath cutting her off. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her left hand pressing unconsciously against her lower stomach. She looked trapped, her eyes wide with a new, distinct panic as she desperately wanted to disappear.

Jeongyeon’s eyes narrowed instantly, recognizing the physical reaction. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Momo tried to shake her head. "Nothing. Just... a cramp." She attempted to discreetly gather the napkin and silverware on her side of the table, using the distraction as an excuse to stand up and retreat from the dining room.

"Stop." Jeongyeon's voice was sharp, cracking like a whip, shattering the last pretense of domesticity. Nayeon looked at her, startled. "Jeongyeon..." "No!" Jeongyeon's hand hit the table, making the dishes rattle. "I am done with this! I am done with the whispering, and the hiding, and the 'I'm fines'! We do this dance, Momo, you hide, we pretend, and it only gets worse! Look at you! You're shaking!"

The raw, frustrated anger in her mother's voice was the final blow. Momo flinched violently, as if she'd been struck. The stress of the confrontation, combined with the secret agony, caused a vicious, searing pain to spike through her abdomen.

She gasped, a small, choked sound of pure, unadulterated agony. Her knees buckled and she stumbled backward, her hands flying out, knocking her chair, her plate, and her silverware to the floor. The heavy ceramic dishes shattered loudly, the noise a final, violent rupture of the forced calm, echoing the breaking point they had all reached.

Jeongyeon was on her feet before the first piece of ceramic hit the floor. She was beside Momo in a single stride, dropping to her knees on the hard wooden floor, her hands hovering, afraid to touch, afraid not to. Her initial fury was now indistinguishable from her terror. She grabbed Momo by the shoulders, her grip just shy of painful, pulling her daughter's trembling body toward her. "Momo! Momo, what is it?"

Momo was on all fours, her entire body wracked with violent shivers, her breath coming in short, pained gasps from the immense pain. Yet, even now, even on the floor amidst the wreckage, her instinct to hide was absolute. "I'm... I'm f-fine," she gasped, her face pale and slick with sweat. "I j-just... I slipped. I'm okay."

The lie, so blatant and so desperate, shattered Jeongyeon's last shred of forced calm. “Momo! It's enough now! No more secrets! What is wrong with you? Look at me! Tell us the truth!"

Nayeon was there a heartbeat later, crouching on the other side, her face ashen, horrified by the collapse and by Jeongyeon's intensity. "Jeongyeon, stop! You're scaring her! She's hurt!"

"She's been hiding!" Jeongyeon roared, her own eyes wild with tears of fear and frustration. "We can't help her if she lies to us!"

Momo dissolved completely then, the dam of shame, secrecy, and abject terror finally, irrevocably ruptured. She was crying hysterically, a keening, animal sound of pure misery, clutching her stomach and rocking back and forth on her knees. "I d-don't... I d-don't kn-know!" she wailed, her words dissolving into hiccuping sobs.

"Please, baby, please," Nayeon pleaded, her voice cracking as she rubbed Momo's back, trying to counteract Jeongyeon's harsh energy. "The pain... we need to know. Is it your appendix? We have to help you."

"S-since a f-few m-months," Momo finally confessed, the words ripped out of her. "It's... it's here," she whispered, her trembling hand pointing precisely to the lower-right quadrant of her abdomen. "It's a h-heavy feeling, Mom. Like a deep, crushing p-pressure... and sometimes... sometimes there's a horrible, b-burning nausea that just... sits there. It... it's g-getting worse!"

"We need to know everything, sweetie," Nayeon insisted, her own voice cracking as tears filled her eyes, helplessness warring with her own rising fear. "The sleeping in our bed, the panic attacks about the homework, the pain... it's all connected. Please, please tell us what is making you this scared."

"I d-didn't want to t-tell you about the p-pain," she wailed, "because I know... I know you'll make me q-quit soccer, and I c-can't! I just... I n-need to be normal! I'm s-scared that if I stop... if I stop, the p-pain will get worse and I'll... I'll lose myself..."

Jeongyeon, her own body trembling violently, gently but firmly guided Momo's hands away from her abdomen. Her anger was gone, replaced by a cold, sickening dread. "Sweetheart, try to breathe with me. Breathe. Can you describe exactly where it hurts? Not just... not just the quadrant."

Momo, still sobbing, nodded, her face buried against Nayeon's chest, seeking refuge. "It's... it's not j-just cramps," she hiccuped. "It's... it's like a deep, p-persistent ache... it’s like… d-deep, under the ribs. Sometimes... sometimes I c-can’t stand up straight. It’s... it's the s-same kind of pain I... I used to get..." She faltered, choking on the admission. "...b-back then.”

Jeongyeon’s heart stopped. The world tilted. Her face went deathly pale, a sudden, hot, freezing terror gripping her so intensely it stole her breath. She knew. From the sealed adoption records, from the clinical reports she had memorized and then tried to burn from her memory. Oh god. No. Not now.

She could only manage a whisper, barely audible against the sound of Nayeon's quiet sobs. "Back... back when, sweetheart?"

Momo's entire body went rigid. She tried to pull away from Nayeon, to curl into a tiny, unseeable ball. A cold sweat beaded on her forehead, and her breath came in short, shallow, terrified pants. She was shaking her head violently, as if to deny the words that were forcing their way up her throat. "I c-can't... I c-can't..." she gasped, her eyes screwed shut so tightly they ached. "P-please... no..."

"Momo, please," Jeongyeon's voice broke, all the earlier anger and terror dissolving into a single, raw, whispered plea. It was the sound of her own heart shattering.

And the plea shattered Momo's last defense. The words were ripped from her, each one a physical agony. She was choking on the syllables, her small body convulsing with a primal terror that no child should ever know, a memory her body had held long after her mind had tried to bury it.

"W-when..." she hiccuped. "When I... when I was... l-little." Her breath seized. "B-before... before you." She choked on a sob, her hands fisted at her sides. "W-with... with... h-him."

Momo looked up then, her expression completely shattered, the worst, most buried secret of her life finally, brutally revealed. "I d-didn't want to s-say anything," she wept, her eyes wide and wild. "I th-thought... I thought if I had that p-pain again... it m-meant..."

She took one last, shuddering breath, her voice dropping to a whisper of ultimate shame. "...it meant I was b-broken again. That he... that he b-broke me."

The confession was a clean, brutal hit. Jeongyeon felt the decade of careful, loving scaffolding they had built around their daughter collapse into dust. Her earlier rage evaporated completly, replaced by a raw, aching, bottomless parental despair.

Nayeon let out a choked cry, a sound of pure anguish, covering her mouth with one hand as tears streamed freely down her face. "Oh, baby," she wept. She pulled Momo tighter, her arms a vise of protective love, tucking her daughter's head under her chin, shielding her from the world, from the memory. "You are not broken. Do you hear me, baby? You were never broken. You are whole, and you are good, and you are ours."

She kissed the top of Momo's trembling head. "That pain... it’s just an echo, my love. It's a memory, and it can't ever hurt you like he did. And we are here. We are right here with you, and we are not going anywhere."

Jeongyeon, trembling so hard she could barely move, reached out. Her hand cupped the back of Momo's head, her fingers tangling in her daughter's hair. She then wrapped her other arm around both Momo and Nayeon, pulling them all into a tight, desperate, fractured embrace on the cold dining room floor.

Momo didn't just cry; she clung. Her hands fisted in the fabric of Nayeon's sweater and Jeongyeon's uniform, holding on as if they were the only two solid things in a collapsing world. Her sobs were no longer hysterical but were the deep, shuddering, agonizing sounds of a pain finally let go.

All three of them were crying now—Momo with the agonizing release of confession, Nayeon with a heart that was shattering and reforming all at once around her daughter, and Jeongyeon with a bone-deep, resurrected terror that was now being eclipsed by an even more powerful, protective love.

Chapter Text

The waiting room was a quiet, sterile space of beige walls, muted floral prints, and a faint, antiseptic smell that did nothing to ease the cold dread settled deep in Jeongyeon’s stomach. It was 8:30 in the morning. A digital clock hummed almost silently on one wall, displaying the time. The muffled sound of traffic from the street outside was the only break in the heavy quiet.

She was running on nothing but adrenaline and pure exhaustion. Sleep had been impossible. After Momo's devastating breakdown, after the call to Dr. Jung’s emergency line, Momo had crawled into their bed—a small, trembling refugee seeking asylum. Jeongyeon had spent the entire night rigid, staring at the ceiling, listening to every hitched breath and small, pained whimper that came from her daughter sleeping fitfully between her and Nayeon.

Now, Momo sat between them again, a small, pale figure dwarfed by her parents. She was visibly hiding, dressed in baggy gray sweatpants and one of Jeongyeon’s old, soft police academy hoodie, the sleeves pulled down over her hands. Her knees were drawn up, and she stared blankly at the beige carpet, her body language radiating pure, bone-deep exhaustion. She looked mortified to be here, surrounded by the few other adult women in the room who were idly flipping through magazines.

Nayeon sat on her right, rubbing small, steady circles on her back, her touch a constant, grounding presence. But Jeongyeon could see the tremor in Nayeon’s other hand as it clutched her phone, her mind no doubt already spinning, researching, trying to find a path through the terror of last night’s confession.

Jeongyeon herself felt like a live wire, every nerve ending exposed. She scanned the room, unconsciously assessing the other women, her police instincts blurring with her parental fear. Every quiet cough, every click of the reception door, made her flinch. She had failed to protect Momo from the memory, and now the memory was physically, actively hurting her.

Momo shifted, her hand moving unconsciously to her abdomen beneath the thick sweatshirt, a small wince tightening her features. Nayeon leaned in, whispering something Jeongyeon couldn’t hear. Momo just nodded, her eyes squeezing shut for a brief second.

"Family Yoo?"

The nurse’s voice was softer than the usual waiting room call, tinged with a knowing kindness that suggested she'd been briefed. The three of them stood in unison, a small, broken unit under the harsh fluorescent lights.

The walk down the long, narrow hallway felt endless. The polished linoleum floors reflected the cold overhead lights, making the journey feel surreal, like walking through a tunnel. The nurse, a woman with warm eyes, glanced back sympathetically as she led them.

"Exam Room 3, right here," she said gently, holding the door open. "Just make yourselves comfortable. Momo, if you could just hop up onto the exam table, please. Dr. Jung will be right in with you." She offered Momo a small, encouraging smile before leaving and closing the door, plunging them back into silence.

The room was small and functional, dominated by the exam table covered in crisp, crinkling paper. A swivel stool, a computer monitor displaying a generic nature scene, and a countertop lined with sterile supplies completed the sparse furnishings.

Momo sat on the edge of the exam table. She looked impossibly small in the large hoodie, her feet dangling inches above the floor. Nayeon immediately moved to stand beside her, taking her hand, her thumb rubbing soothing circles on her knuckles. Jeongyeon took her position by the door, arms crossed, a sentinel unable to guard against the threat already inside.

A moment later, the door opened, and Dr. Jung entered, bringing a quiet sense of calm into the tense room. She was a kind woman with sharp, observant eyes that seemed to take in everything—Jeongyeon's rigid stance, Nayeon's anxious hovering, Momo's withdrawn posture—in a single glance.

"Good morning," she smiled warmly, making direct eye contact with each of them before settling her gaze gently on Momo. "I'm Dr. Jung. It’s nice to meet you, though I wish it were under better circumstances. So, what brings you in today?"

All eyes went to Momo. The sudden, direct focus made her shrink. She stared intently at her hands, twisting the thick hem of her sleeve between her fingers, unable to speak. The idea of describing the pain, the shame of it, in this clinical setting, felt suffocating.

Nayeon, sensing her daughter’s rising panic, stepped in, her voice steady despite the tremor Jeongyeon could hear running beneath it. "She's been having severe abdominal pain, Doctor. It's been intermittent for a few months, but last night it was acute. She collapsed."

Dr. Jung nodded, her expression becoming more focused as she processed the information. "Okay. Momo, I know this can be awkward, but I'm a gynecologist, so my job is to make sure everything in this area is healthy. Can you point to where it hurts?"

Momo hesitated, then pointed vaguely to her lower abdomen.

"And is this pain related to your period at all? Does it seem to follow a cycle?" Dr. Jung asked gently.

Momo shrank even further into herself. Her face flushed a deep, painful red. Discussing menstruation in front of her mothers—especially Jeongyeon—was profoundly mortifying. She stared fixedly at her lap, unable to speak, and just gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head.

"Okay," Dr. Jung said kindly, sensing the overwhelming shame. "That's alright. Let's start with your vitals then. I'm just going to get your blood pressure. It's probably a bit high from stress, but we need a baseline."

She moved to the side, gently taking Momo's arm and wrapping the cuff around her bicep. The room filled with the quiet hiss of the cuff inflating. Nayeon rubbed Momo's back, while Momo just stared at the cuff, wishing she could disappear. Dr. Jung noted the reading, her brow furrowing slightly. "Alright, it is quite elevated, Momo. That tells me you're definitely feeling stressed." She released the cuff. "Now, about the pain itself – you said it's intermittent, but got worse last night..."

It was the opening Jeongyeon needed. She couldn't let them proceed down a purely physical path without context. She stepped forward, her voice low and careful, not wanting to startle her daughter further, but vibrating with suppressed urgency. "Doctor."

Dr. Jung looked up. "Yes?"

"The pain she's describing," her eyes stayed locked on Dr. Jung, "it's specific. It matches the location of severe internal injuries she sustained as a child. Before we adopted her.”

Momo flinched violently, pulling her gaze from the now-deflated cuff to stare holes into the crinkling paper on the exam table. A small, choked sound of humiliation escaped her. Her mother speaking the secret aloud in this sterile, bright room felt like a second, brutal exposure.

Nayeon, seeing her daughter's profound mortification, immediately moved closer. She gently squeezed Momo's free hand and started rubbing her back again. "It's okay, baby," she whispered. "We're just getting you help."

Dr. Jung immediately stopped making notes. She looked from Jeongyeon’s desperate, protective face back to Momo, who was now trembling. "I see. Thank you for telling me. That changes the context significantly."

She turned her full attention back to Momo. "Momo, we still must rule out any underlying physical cause—that is my first priority, to make sure you are safe and that nothing else is wrong. But we will do it carefully."

She paused, making sure Momo was still listening. "So to understand what's happening, we need to do an ultrasound. That means I'll need to examine your abdomen and pelvic area. This is your examination, so you decide who stays in the room. Would you prefer we do this privately?"

Momo kept her head down, the shame still visible in the red of her ears. The idea of anyone examining her was terrifying, but the thought of being alone was worse. She glanced quickly at Jeongyeon, who looked back with a fierce, anxious love that felt almost too intense in the small, sterile room. Then her eyes found Nayeon's, which were just soft, steady, and waiting.

"Can... can you stay, Mom?" Momo whispered, her gaze fixed pleadingly on Nayeon.

"Of course, baby," Nayeon said immediately, squeezing her hand.

Jeongyeon’s heart gave a sharp, painful pang—a quick, selfish sting of rejection—but it vanished instantly, replaced by complete, gut-wrenching understanding. Of course Momo chose Nayeon. Nayeon represented the quiet calm, the teacher's gentle patience, the steady presence Momo needed when feeling overwhelmed or ashamed. Jeongyeon was the fighter, the protector whose intensity, right now, probably felt like more pressure. And in this moment of extreme physical vulnerability, Momo needed Nayeon's unwavering softness, not Jeongyeon's coiled strength.

So she stepped forward, her throat tight and pulled Momo into a tight, desperate hug, burying her face in her daughter's hair for a brief second, inhaling her familiar scent. "I love you so much, little Peach," she murmured. "You are so strong.” She kissed her head. “I'm going to be right outside that door. Okay? Not even a foot away."

She pulled back, kissed her forehead again, and met Nayeon's eyes over their daughter's head. The look conveyed a thousand words of trust, fear, and shared love. Then, she turned, walked out of the exam room, and closed the door, the click of the latch sounding unnervingly final against the sudden, heavy silence.

Inside the room, the air had grown thinner. Dr. Jung locked the door to ensure their privacy.

"Okay, Momo," Dr. Jung said gently. "We're just going to help you lie back on the table."

Momo moved stiffly, her body rigid with anticipated fear. Nayeon helped her adjust the paper gown, her heart breaking at the sight of her daughter’s trembling knees, the way she was trying so hard to be brave but failing.

"I'm right here, baby," Nayeon whispered, moving to stand by the head of the table. "Look at me. Just focus on my voice. Squeeze my hand as hard as you need to."

"We're going to start with the ultrasound, just on your stomach first," Dr. Jung explained, moving the machine closer. "This gel is going to feel a little cold and wet, okay?"

Momo nodded, her eyes wide, locked on the acoustic ceiling tiles, her breathing already shallow and quickening. She gripped Nayeon's hand with white knuckles.

Dr. Jung applied the clear, cool gel and Momo flinched violently, a small gasp escaping her lips. Then, as the doctor gently pressed the transducer to her lower abdomen, just above the waistband of her sweatpants, Momo went utterly still. It was a terrifying stillness, her eyes wide and unseeing, her body instantly locked, a statue carved from fear.

Dr. Jung, perhaps hoping to be quick and minimize the discomfort, gently slid the transducer a fraction of an inch across Momo's skin, trying to get the initial image.

That small movement, combined with the continued pressure and coldness, shattered the fragile dam.

A choked, guttural sound ripped from her throat. She arched violently off the table, thrashing with desperate strength, her hands flying up to push Dr. Jung away. "No! Get off! Don't touch me!" she screamed, her voice high and unrecognizable, filled with raw terror.

She was completely disassociating, lost in a past horror. Her breathing exploded into sharp, panicked gasps, her chest heaving violently as if she were suffocating. "I can't— I can't breathe!" she whimpered, trying desperately to scramble off the table, her eyes wild with terror, seeing something—or someone—else entirely in the small, sterile room. "It hurts! Get it off, Mom, please!"

"She's panicking, Doctor!" Nayeon cried and threw herself partially over Momo, trying to shield her, trying to break through the fugue state, her heart shattering at the raw fear radiating from her daughter. "Momo! Momo, look at me! Listen to my voice! It’s Mom! You are safe! This is Dr. Jung. She is here to help you. I’ve got you!"

Dr. Jung pulled the transducer away immediately, dropping it onto the machine with a soft clatter. She grabbed a soft cloth and quickly wiped the remaining gel off Momo's stomach, her face etched with deep concern.

"It's okay, Momo. We're stopped. You're safe. Just breathe with your Mom. Deep breaths."

But Momo couldn't stop. She was trapped in the memory, hyperventilating so severely her lips were beginning to look pale. Her hands clawed desperately at her own shirt, then at her throat, as if trying to rip away something constricting her airway. She sobbed uncontrollably, great, racking sounds that tore through the sterile quiet. "I can't breathe, I can't, make it stop! Please make it stop!"

Dr. Jung looked at Nayeon, her expression pained but professional. "Miss Yoo—she’s in a full-blown panic attack, possibly a flashback. Her oxygen saturation is dropping. We can't proceed like this, and I don't want this experience to retraumatize her. I have a mild, fast-acting sublingual anti-anxiety medication here—lorazepam. It will just help her relax, take the edge off the panic so we can finish the exam safely, or at least help her calm down enough to breathe properly. Is that okay?"

Nayeon looked at her daughter, who was completely consumed by a terror she couldn't reach, reliving something horrific, her body physically shutting down. Tears streamed down her face as she nodded, her voice breaking on a choked sob.

"Yes," she managed. "Please. Just... help her.”

Dr. Jung moved with quick, efficient calm. She unlocked a small metal medication cabinet on the wall and retrieved a small, sealed foil packet. "Momo, this is a sublingual tablet. It's not a shot. It just dissolves right under your tongue, and it works very fast, usually within a few minutes. It will just help the scary feeling go away, help you catch your breath."

Nayeon was already cradling her daughter’s face between her hands, trying desperately to anchor her in the present. "Momo. Momo, baby, look at me."

Momo's eyes were wide, unfocused, slick with terror, darting frantically around the room as if searching for an escape that wasn't there. She was still gasping, weak, desperate sounds now. "I can't, I can't breathe, it hurts—"

"I know, I know," Nayeon crooned, her own tears dripping onto Momo's hoodie. "Dr. Jung has something to help. It will make the bad feeling stop. Can you just open your mouth for me? Please, sweetie, just for me."

Momo was barely coherent, lost in the overwhelming sensory flood, but the unwavering presence of Nayeon's voice, the familiar scent of her perfume, finally registered somewhere deep inside. She gave a small, jerky nod and Dr. Jung quickly slipped the tiny white pill under Momo's tongue.

Nayeon pulled Momo fully into her arms, shifting her completely off the table and into her lap on the chair, cradling her tightly as if she were four years old again, not sixteen. She rocked her gently, rhythmically, her hand stroking her sweat-damp hair, whispering a steady stream of soothing nonsense, "I've got you, you're safe, it's just us, I've got you, breathe with me, baby, breathe..."

Dr. Jung stepped back, disposing of the packet and giving them space.

It took five long, agonizing minutes, each second stretching into an eternity. Gradually, almost imperceptibly at first, the medication began to chemically unspool the tight, violent coil of panic in Momo's chest. Her frantic hyperventilating gasps softened, lengthening into deep, shuddering, exhausted breaths that seemed to draw air all the way down. The iron grip she had on Nayeon's arm loosened, finger by finger. Her body, moments before rigid with terror and adrenaline, went limp, heavy, and boneless against Nayeon.

"Mom," she whispered. "I'm so tired."

"I know, baby. I know," Nayeon wept quietly, relief washing over her in a dizzying wave. She kissed Momo's hair, her cheek, anything she could reach. "Just rest. You're okay now."

Dr. Jung waited another moment, allowing the calm to fully settle, before approaching slowly, pulling her stool close again. "Momo?" she asked softly, waiting until Momo turned her head slightly. "How are you feeling now? A little quieter inside?"

Momo, her cheek still pressed to Nayeon's chest, gave a small, exhausted nod. Her eyelids felt heavy.

"Good. You did so well," Dr. Jung said, her voice filled with genuine empathy. "You were incredibly brave." She paused, choosing her next words carefully. "We still need to finish the ultrasound, just to be sure everything is physically okay. But there is absolutely no pressure to do it right now. If this was too much, we can stop and schedule it for another day, maybe with more preparation. Your comfort and safety are the most important things here. What do you want to do?"

Momo tensed again, a new wave of fear flickering in her hazy eyes at the thought of restarting the exam. She looked at Nayeon, whose expression was pure, unwavering support, ready to accept whatever she chose. The idea of coming back, of facing this again, felt unbearable. She was already here, already medicated, already raw.

She took another slow, deep breath. "Can... can we just finish it?" she whispered. "I just want it to be over."

Nayeon squeezed her hand. "Are you sure, baby?"

Momo nodded, a small, determined movement.

"Okay," Dr. Jung said. "You're very brave. We'll be quick and careful. Nayeon won't move an inch."

Nayeon gently helped Momo lie back on the table again, keeping her arms firmly around her daughter's shoulders, shielding her, her body a physical barrier. "I've got you, it won't be like last time."

Momo's eyes remained squeezed shut, her face pale against the white paper pillow. Dr. Jung worked quickly and gently, her movements now practiced and fast, describing every step, checking in with Momo constantly. "Almost done... just one more angle... okay." The hum of the ultrasound machine filled the otherwise silent room.

"Okay. All done. You did wonderfully, Momo. Truly," Dr. Jung said, as she switched off the machine. "You can sit up now, nice and slow."

She then efficiently wiped the remaining gel away with soft paper towels and helped Momo swing her legs back over the side of the table. Momo slumped immediately, leaning heavily against Nayeon's side, her body full of exhaustion and the lingering effects of the medication. Nayeon wrapped an arm securely around her waist, supporting her weight. Dr. Jung pulled her stool over, facing them, her face kind but serious. She waited until Momo seemed somewhat settled, her breathing deep and even, though her eyes remained half-closed.

"Momo, I have good news and... a clear explanation. The good news is that the ultrasound looks clear of any new gynecological issues. I see no cysts, no signs of endometriosis or infection. Physically, your reproductive organs look perfectly healthy."

Nayeon let out a shaky breath, a sob catching in her throat.

"However," Dr. Jung continued, her voice very gentle but firm, her gaze shifting between them, "the ultrasound did show something else, something significant. It shows dense internal scar tissue—what we call adhesions—deep in your abdomen, primarily in the lower-right quadrant, near the area you indicated the pain."

Nayeon’s breath hitched audibly. "From... from before?"

Dr. Jung nodded gravely, looking directly at Momo with profound compassion. "When you were little, Momo, the severe internal injuries your mother mentioned... they healed, but they left extensive scars on the inside. This tissue isn't flexible like normal tissue. Over time, especially as you grew rapidly during puberty, this scar tissue can tighten. Think of it like a web that doesn't stretch. These adhesions can sometimes pull on nearby structures, nerves, or even organs, which may cause that discomfort or pulling sensation you described. That's what you're feeling. That's the 'heavy, crushing pressure.' It's been quiet for ten years because your body was compensating," Dr. Jung explained, seeing the confused, terrified look on Momo's face. "But now, you're sixteen. Your hormones are changing significantly, you're pushing your body hard as a top-level athlete, and you're under immense stress from school. That combination of factors—physical and emotional stress—is likely causing inflammation in the area, and that inflammation is making the old, tight scar tissue pull much more intensely.”

"So I am broken," Momo whispered, the tears starting fresh, though the medication kept them from escalating into full-blown panic.

"No, sweetheart. Not broken," Nayeon insisted fiercely, clutching Momo's hand tighter, her own tears blurring her vision.

"Absolutely not," Dr. Jung agreed, leaning in. "You're not broken. You're surviving a past injury. Your body is remembering, physically, what your mind tried so hard to forget. The pain is real, and the ultrasound shows the adhesions clearly, but to understand exactly how extensive they are, how they're positioned—what nerves they might be pressing on, or how much they're tightening around vital structures—I want to get an MRI. That will give us a complete, detailed map of the area."

Nayeon’s head swam. An MRI. It felt like things were escalating, moving too fast, spiraling out of their control. "An MRI? Now? How do we... do we need to go to the hospital?"

Dr. Jung nodded. "Yes, at the main hospital's radiology department. I can't do it here." She looked at Momo, who was watching them with wide, hazy eyes, the medication making her pliant but still present, leaning heavily into Nayeon's side. "Normally, we'd schedule this, but given the severity of the pain last night and this new context..." She paused, making a decision. "I'm going to call them now and mark it as an urgent consult. The fact that you're already calm from the medication will actually make the MRI much easier—you have to lie very still for a long time in a loud machine."

She stood, her gaze softening as she looked at Nayeon. "While I make that call, I'm also writing you a prescription for a mild anti-inflammatory to help with the immediate pain when this wears off.”

Nayeon nodded, overwhelmed but grasping onto the plan. "Thank you, Doctor."

"I'll be right back. I need to make this call from my office." Dr. Jung slipped out of the room, leaving Nayeon and Momo alone in the heavy silence, broken only by Momo’s soft, uneven breathing.

"Mom?" Momo whispered after a while, her voice thick and sleepy from the meds.

"I'm right here, baby," Nayeon murmured, leaning in to kiss her forehead, right above the faint blue line of a vein. Momo’s skin felt warm and slightly damp under her lips. "It's okay. We have a plan."

"Can... can Mama come back in?" Momo asked, the shame from earlier completely overshadowed by a simple, profound need for her other parent.

"Of course, sweetie." Nayeon gently helped Momo sit up a little straighter and smoothed over her face once more, giving her a reassuring squeeze, and then moved quickly to the door.

Jeongyeon was still leaning against the opposite wall, her phone clutched in her hand. She looked up instantly, her face a mask of raw terror. "Is she okay? What happened?"

Nayeon's eyes were filled with tears. "It’s okay, Jeong. It’s real. She has internal adhesions. Scar tissue from... from before. It's pulling. Dr. Jung is calling the hospital for an urgent MRI right now."

Jeongyeon’s breath hitched. It's real. She pushed off the wall and walked back into the room, her gaze finding Momo on the table.

Momo looked up at her, her eyes hazy but scared. "Mama…” She lifted her arms weakly, reaching for her mother.

Jeongyeon's expression softened completely, melting into pure, aching love. She crossed the room in two strides and gently scooped Momo off the table and into her arms, cradling her close against her chest as if she weighed nothing.

Momo clung to her instantly, burying her face against her collarbone, her small body trembling slightly. Silent, hot tears soaked into the fabric of Jeongyeon’s shirt, but there was a sense of safety in the embrace now, a release. Jeongyeon held her tightly, rocking her, her own eyes squeezed shut as she pressed a long kiss to Momo's hair. "I've got you," she whispered. "I've got you, Mo. I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere. We're going to figure this out." Nayeon stood beside them, her hand resting gently on Momo’s back, holding her tears back for now.

The door opened softly, and Dr. Jung came back in, holding a prescription slip and a referral form. She waited respectfully for a moment, seeing Jeongyeon still holding Momo close, Nayeon beside them, a fragile but united front.

"Okay, I have good news. I called the hospital's radiology department. The head radiologist on duty, Dr. Kim, she's an old friend of mine from medical school. I explained the situation, pulled a few strings. She's clearing the machine for you. They're waiting for you now for the MRI."

Jeongyeon slowly eased Momo back onto her feet, though she kept a steadying arm around her daughter’s waist. Momo leaned heavily against her, still hazy from the medication and bundled in the oversized hoodie.

Dr. Jung held out the prescription slip first. "This is for the anti-inflammatory, to help manage the pain once the lorazepam wears off."

Nayeon took it with a trembling hand, nodding.

Then Dr. Jung held out the official hospital referral form, already filled out. "And this has all the details Dr. Kim needs. Take it straight to radiology admissions at the main hospital. They'll be expecting you."

Nayeon took the second form as well, folding them carefully together. "Thank you, Doctor. For everything."

"No worries," Dr. Jung said, giving Momo one last look. "Momo, you were very brave today. We have a plan now, okay? We'll figure this out."

Momo just nodded, too tired to speak, burying her face against Jeongyeon's side.

"Come on, sweetie," Nayeon murmured, gathering Momo's discarded shoes. "Let's go."

Jeongyeon kept her arm securely around Momo's waist, supporting most of her weight. Together, flanking their daughter, they walked out of the sterile exam room, leaving the gynecologist's office behind.

The radiology waiting area was a different kind of purgatory from the clinic. The cheerful colors were gone, replaced by walls painted a sterile, institutional beige. Muted gray plastic chairs lined the perimeter, most of them empty, reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. The air was unnaturally still, the thick walls designed to contain the powerful magnetic fields rendering the room eerily silent regarding the procedure happening just feet away. Only the low hum of the ventilation system and the occasional distant beep of unrelated equipment broke the heavy quiet. A large digital clock on the wall pulsed the time—10:03 AM—each bright red numeral a stark reminder of the agonizing slowness of their wait. Every minute felt stretched thin, brittle, ready to snap.

Momo had to be completely sedated. The lingering effects of the lorazepam hadn't been enough to counteract the profound, claustrophobic terror of being slid into the narrow, tomb-like MRI tube. The panic attack had threatened to return with violent force the moment the technicians began positioning her, her small whimper escalating into a choked gasp. The lead technician had insisted on general anesthesia for a clear, diagnostic image.

Now Jeongyeon and Nayeon sat near the heavy door marked "MRI Suite 1". Nayeon was slumped forward, her elbows resting on her knees, her head buried in her hands. Her shoulders shook almost imperceptibly with silent sobs. She felt small, utterly depleted, crushed by the weight of Momo's pain and the resurgence of the past they thought they had escaped.

Jeongyeon sat a chair away, her spine rigid against the unyielding plastic, hands clenched tightly in her lap. Her gaze was fixed on the closed door, her expression a mask of stony control. But inside, she was crumbling, vibrating with a toxic mix of terror, rage, and crushing guilt. The silence was almost worse than noise; it left too much room for her imagination to fill in the blanks, picturing Momo alone in the machine. She should have known. She should have seen the signs earlier—the exhaustion, the withdrawal, the missed assignments. She was a cop; she was trained to observe, to see the patterns. She was supposed to see. The fact that Momo was unconscious—drugged into compliance because the memory of her trauma was so potent—made Jeongyeon physically sick with a helpless fury she had nowhere to put.

Nayeon lifted her head slightly, her voice was muffled by her hands. "How long has it been?"

Jeongyeon’s hand was shaking as she unclenched it to check her watch. "Twenty minutes," she replied. "They said forty-five. Maybe a little longer with the sedation."

Seeing Nayeon break, hearing those choked, heartbroken sounds, cracked Jeongyeon's own carefully constructed dam. She stood abruptly, the plastic chair scraping slightly against the polished floor. She crossed the small gap and knelt in front of her wife, gently pulling her hands away from her tear-streaked face.

"Nabong," Jeongyeon whispered. "Hey. Look at me."

Nayeon looked up, her face a mess of grief and exhaustion. "I can't do this, Jeong," she sobbed. "Hearing her say... thinking she's broken..."

Jeongyeon pulled Nayeon forward, wrapping her arms around her tightly, holding her shaking frame against her own rigid one. Nayeon clung to her, burying her face in her shoulder, her sobs finally finding an open release.

"I know," Jeongyeon murmured, rocking her gently, her own eyes squeezed shut. "I know it hurts. But she's not broken. We won't let her be. We'll help her. Together." She held Nayeon tighter, needing the physical anchor as much as Nayeon did. "She's strong. She survived him. She'll survive this."

They stayed like that for a long moment, kneeling on the cold floor, finding solace in the shared embrace amidst the sterile silence. The prison letter, hidden beneath tea towels, felt like a distant, irrelevant memory. The only reality was the fear for their daughter behind the heavy door.

Finally, Nayeon's sobs began to subside into shuddering breaths. Jeongyeon gently eased her back, wiping a tear from Nayeon's cheek with her thumb.

Just as they began to compose themselves, the heavy door to the MRI suite hissed open, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet room.

Both women jolted, scrambling awkwardly to their feet. Dr. Kim, the radiologist they had briefly met when Momo was taken back, emerged, holding a thin folder, her face professional and composed. She offered a brief, polite nod as she approached them.

"Jeongyeon, Nayeon," she addressed them,

"Dr. Kim," Jeongyeon said, stepping forward, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard she felt dizzy, Nayeon gripping her arm for support. "Is she okay? Is it done?"

Dr. Kim offered a small, reassuring smile, holding up a hand to temper their panic. "She's alright. The procedure is finished. She's in recovery just down the hall, still sleeping off the sedative, but she tolerated it perfectly."

Nayeon let out a breath she felt like she'd been holding for an hour, her knees weakening. "Thank God. And... the scan? Did you see anything?"

Dr. Kim's expression became more clinical, though still gentle, as she motioned them slightly away from the door, into a more private corner of the waiting area, lowering her voice.

"Dr. Jung gave me the history, and her assessment was spot-on," Dr. Kim said, opening the folder to show them a grayscale image that was mostly incomprehensible lines and shadows to them. "The MRI gives us a very clear, detailed map. Momo has significant internal adhesions—that's scar tissue—deep in her lower-right abdomen."

Jeongyeon felt the blood drain from her face. It was one thing to fear it, based on Momo's description; it was another to have it confirmed.

Dr. Kim continued, tracing a subtle, web-like pattern on the image with her pen. "This tissue is old, dense. It's consistent with severe blunt-force trauma from childhood that caused deep bruising or possibly internal tearing, leading to extensive scarring as it healed. What's happening now," she explained, looking back up at them, "is that the scar tissue has essentially 'tethered' itself. It's pulling on the surrounding fascia—the connective tissue. Based on these images, it's running extremely close to, and likely involving, a bundle of nerves in the abdominal wall."

She met their terrified gazes. "It's crucial you understand: this isn't imaginary pain, and it's not 'just stress' manifesting vaguely. The stress is causing inflammation, which is aggravating the already tight, restrictive scar tissue. That pulling is what is causing the acute, physical pain Momo is experiencing. This isn't something that can be fixed with just therapy alone, though therapy for the underlying trauma will be absolutely crucial. This is a physiological problem stemming from the old injury."

"What... what do we do?" Nayeon asked, grasping for a concrete plan amidst the overwhelming information.

"I'm sending the full report and the scans over to Dr. Jung right now," Dr. Kim said efficiently. "She'll coordinate the next steps. This will almost certainly require a consultation with a general surgeon who specializes in adhesion removal, or 'lysis'—a procedure to carefully cut the scar tissue bands. But Dr. Jung will manage that referral process."

She closed the folder gently. "For now, your next step is to go see your daughter. The nurse in recovery is expecting you and will take you to her."

Dr. Kim gave them a final, compassionate look. "She's a very strong kid to have endured this for so long. You can be really proud of her.”

Jeongyeon just nodded, unable to speak, her throat tight. She took Nayeon's hand, their fingers instantly locking together. Together, they turned, following the nurse who had appeared at the end of the hallway, heading toward the recovery room.

The nurse paused outside a curtained bay. "She's just in here. Still very sleepy, but the procedure went well," she said kindly, before pulling the heavy, pale blue curtain aside.

Jeongyeon's breath caught in her throat, a sharp, painful intake of air.

Momo was lying on a narrow gurney, tucked under a thin white hospital blanket. The heavy sedation had completely erased the tension from her face, smoothing away the teenage anxiety, the shame, and the deep, remembered pain. Without that guard, she looked impossibly young—not sixteen, but almost the small, lost four-year-old they had first met. Small, pale, utterly vulnerable, and adrift in the drugged haze.

An IV line was still taped securely to the back of her hand, connected to a saline drip bag hanging from a metal pole. A pulse oximeter clipped to her index finger glowed with a soft red light, its faint, rhythmic beep the loudest sound in the small space. Her dark hair was fanned out on the flat, plastic-covered hospital pillow. She was perfectly, unnervingly still.

Nayeon let out a small, choked sound, a sob catching in her throat, and immediately went to the side of the gurney. She reached out a trembling hand and gently, almost reverently, brushed the damp hair back from Momo's forehead. "Oh, my baby. My poor, brave girl."

Jeongyeon hung back by the curtain, her feet rooted to the linoleum floor. Seeing Momo like this—rendered unconscious by medical necessity, marked by a fight she didn't even know she was still in—was worse than the waiting. "She looks so small," Jeongyeon murmured, the rage from the waiting room had completely evaporated, scoured away, leaving only a profound, hollow ache that resonated deep in her bones. This was the child Sangmin had hurt. This was the child they had sworn to protect, and somehow, the ghost had found her again.

Nayeon looked back at her, her eyes glistening. "She is, Jeong. She's still our little girl."

Jeongyeon finally moved forward, forcing her legs to unstick from the floor. She stood on the other side of the gurney, her gaze tracing the peaceful, almost unnaturally smooth line of Momo's brow. She carefully took her free hand, the one without the pulse oximeter, her large, calloused fingers gently wrapping around her daughter's much smaller ones. It felt warm but utterly limp, unresponsive.

They stood there in the sterile, beeping silence, flanking their daughter—a united, heartbroken front.

After what felt like an eternity, there was a small flutter of Momo's eyelashes, a barely perceptible tremor. A tiny, distressed sound, less than a sigh, more like a soft whimper, escaped her lips as the heaviest layers of sedation began to lift, pulling her unwillingly back towards consciousness.

Jeongyeon’s grip tightened instinctively, her thumb stroking the back of Momo's hand. "Momo? Baby, can you hear me? We're right here."

Momo’s head moved restlessly on the flat pillow, a faint frown creasing her brow before her eyes finally cracked open. They were hazy, unfocused, clouded with drugs and confusion. She blinked slowly, her gaze drifting vaguely across the ceiling, then finding Nayeon's tear-streaked face, then Jeongyeon's intense, worried one. Recognition flickered, weak and slow.

"Mama...? Mom...?" her voice was a dry, scratchy whisper, barely audible over the monitor's beep. "Where...? Hur's..." She couldn't finish the thought, her eyes already drifting closed again, overwhelmed by the effort.

"We're at the hospital, sweetie," Nayeon murmured immediately, leaning closer, stroking her hair back from her face again. "You're okay. The test is all done. It's all over. You were so brave."

Momo blinked slowly again. A single tear escaped from the corner of her eye, tracking a slow path into her hairline.

"H'me," she mumbled. "Wanna go h'me."

"We are, Mo," Jeongyeon said as she leaned down, resting her cheek carefully against the top of Momo's head, inhaling the familiar scent of her daughter mixed with the clean smell of hospital linens. "Just as soon as the Nurse says we can. We're taking you home."

"I'll make you soup," Nayeon added and forced a watery smile. "And we can put on that stupid cartoon marathon you love, and you can sleep right between us in our bed. No questions asked. Just rest."

Momo didn't respond immediately, just let out another soft sigh, her body seeming to melt further into the thin mattress. But then, her brow furrowed slightly, and her eyes cracked open again, a sliver of indignant awareness flashing through the fog.

"...No soup," she mumbled, her voice slurred but surprisingly clear. "...Mom’s soup... danger... Don't wanna die."

There was a beat of confused silence, then Jeongyeon let out a surprised, wet chuckle. Nayeon blinked, then a small, teary laugh escaped her too, a mix of amusement and profound relief at this tiny spark of Momo's usual sass.

"Hey! My soup isn't that bad," she protested weakly, gently swatting Momo's arm.

"No, she's right, yours is questionable," Jeongyeon teased, her smile finally reaching her eyes for a fleeting second. "Don't worry, Peach," she said, leaning close to Momo again. "I'll make you the best soup. The one that doesn't taste like danger. Okay?"

"Okay," Momo mumbled, seeming satisfied with this clarification, and let her eyes drift shut again. She understood only that her moms were here, their voices were kind, and their hands were warm.

Jeongyeon pulled back, her own eyes stinging. She gently brushed the single tear track off Momo's temple with her thumb. "No more hiding, okay, kiddo?" she whispered, knowing Momo probably couldn't fully hear or understand, but needing to say it anyway. "We're a team. We'll handle all of this, together."

Momo's fingers, which had been limp in Jeongyeon's grasp, gave the faintest, almost imperceptible twitch, a barely-there pressure against Jeongyeon's palm. It wasn't much, but to Jeongyeon, it felt like the strongest squeeze in the world, a tiny sign of the fighter still inside.

The nurse returned a short while later. She checked Momo's vitals on the beeping monitor one last time, gently removed the pulse oximeter from her finger, and confirmed she was stable enough for discharge, though clearly still very groggy and needing significant support. While Nayeon went to the discharge desk to sign the necessary papers, Jeongyeon stayed beside the gurney.

She gently worked to rouse Momo enough to move, speaking softly. "Come on, Peach," she murmured, as the nurse carefully removed the IV needle's tape from the back of Momo's hand and pressed a fresh cotton ball to the small puncture. "Time to break out of this joint. Let's get you home."

Momo mumbled something, her body still heavy and uncoordinated from the anesthesia. Jeongyeon slid her arms under Momo's back and knees and lifted her daughter easily into her arms, cradling her securely against her chest. Momo instinctively curled inwards, her head lolling onto Jeongyeon's shoulder, already drifting back towards sleep, safe in the familiar strength of her mother's hold.

Nayeon held the curtain open, her face etched with worry but also a fierce resolve. Together they walked out of the recovery room, leaving the cold beeps and sterile smells behind, ready to face the long, uncertain path of healing that lay ahead.