Archive of Our Own ^beta

The apartment smelled of simmering soup and lemon-sweet steam from a recently wiped kettle. Yuzu paced the living room with her favorite teacup, the ring on her finger cutting white into her knuckles. Across from her, Ume watched with the steady, careful attention she always used—the look of someone who knows how to wait. She stood by the sink, cutting an apple into neat wedges out of habit, moving small and efficient, the kind of grace earned from years of making a home. Her glances toward Yuzu were curious but patient; she could tell something was coming.

Yuzu’s voice, when it arrived, was small and fragile, as if she were holding a glass in both palms. “Mama,” she said, testing the word. “There’s… something I have to tell you.”

Ume’s face gave nothing away. She had met every childhood emergency—wounded sparrows, scraped knees—with the same calm. This would be no different. She set the knife down and moved to sit on the couch across from Yuzu, open, and attentive. “All right,” she said. “Take your time.”

The apartment felt unusually quiet, the kind of hush that settles in certain afternoons when sunlight pools in still corners. Yuzu clutched her teacup; the tea had gone lukewarm. She’d rehearsed this for a week, and each time her words dissolved under her nerves. Her throat tightened. Now or never, she told herself. If I wait until after Mei’s gone, I’ll regret it forever.

“Uh… Mama?” she tried again, softer.

“Yes, honey?” The voice was warm, sharper now with attention.

Yuzu traced the cup’s rim; sunlight caught the faint gold in her hair. “It’s… kind of big.”

Ume nodded and patted the cushion beside her. “Sit. Tell me everything.”

Yuzu stared into her tea, words lodged like stones. “It’s about Mei,” she said at last.

Ume tilted her head, listening.

Yuzu shifted, stammering.  “You know she’s… getting married soon. Or trying to. But I—I c-can’t let her. I can’t…” She glanced up to gauge her mother’s face and found only the same calm interest.

“Why not?” Ume asked gently. “Tell me.”

The name loosened a breath from Yuzu. The couch suddenly felt too wide. “Mei and I—we’re… together.” The confession landed like stepping stones across a dark stream. Yuzu’s cheeks flamed. “Not just—trying things. We’re involved. I’m in love with her. Not having her is killing me.”

Ume folded her hands and simply listened to the rhythm of Yuzu’s breathing. There was no flinch, only the grounded patience of a woman who had weathered storms. “You’re afraid,” she said. “I can see it in your hands. It’s okay, honey.”

Yuzu hunched, then forced herself to meet her mother’s eyes. “I’m begging you—don’t hate me,” she said, the plea raw and honest. “Please. I know it’s different. I know how people are. But I love Mei. It’s not a phase. We’ve been together since a few months after I came to Aihara Academy—after we moved in here and we started sharing a bedroom. We love each other.” A nervous, embarrassed laugh slipped out. “We clung to each other for closeness, for comfort… At school, when days are too loud or things get complicated, we…” Her shoulders made a quick, ashamed motion. A tear tracked down her cheek.

Ume’s mouth softened into a small smile that warmed her eyes. “You have always told me everything, even when you thought I didn’t want to know,” she said. “Sit closer. Things are becoming clearer.”

Yuzu’s voice stumbled ahead. “I mean… she’s my—well, step-sister. And she’s Mei. People see her all put-together, so serious—the student council president. But they don’t see how she is when it’s just us. How she slows down, how she leans on me a little. How she smiles, more with her eyes. I can’t stand the thought of her marrying someone else. Not just jealousy—though I am jealous—but because it would be like locking away the part of her I know. Mama, she doesn’t like men that way. Neither do I. I’m not going to pretend anymore. I was struggling with these feelings before I even knew Mei. I kept fighting yearnings that kept nudging at me. I didn’t want to accept being a—being a—”

She swallowed and said the word. “A lesbian.”

Her hands twisted in her lap, into the shape of not pretending. “You probably know the other words people would use,” she added miserably.

The woman listened without judgment, absorbing the confession as if it were another ordinary part of her daughter’s life to hold.

“I didn’t want you to hate me for this. I kept thinking—what if you never look at me the same way again?”

“Yuzu,” Ume said gently, “there’s nothing in what you’ve told me that makes me love you less. Nothing.”

Yuzu winced. Ume leaned forward, steady. “You’re telling me you love someone. That’s not shameful. Tell me the whole story.”

Bolstered by that compassion, Yuzu began, halting at first as she reached back to the start. “It started after the first weeks I moved in. Mei kept herself distant—quiet, polite, maybe cold. I didn’t understand her.” She managed a small, awkward smile. “Sometimes we fought. And there was crazy stuff. But I remember the night she let me see how lonely she was. We were in our pajamas and she said something about missing her dad—it was like she handed me a piece of herself.”

She paused, eyes falling. “It grew from there. We started caring for each other in ways that felt more than step-sisters. At first I thought it was a stupid crush. We fumbled, argued, clung, pushed each other away. She never completely  pushed me out. Then one night, she kissed me.” Yuzu’s cheeks heated, but she met her mother’s gaze. “We kissed each other—properly. It was the kiss of two people terrified because something huge had just happened. That’s when I knew it wasn’t just me.”

Ume let the quiet settle, the clock the only sound. “When was this?”

“Just before my sixteenth birthday,” Yuzu said softly. She braced as if for reproach. “I was scared. It wasn’t supposed to happen—we’re family. I told myself it was a phase, that Mei was lonely and I was just there. But it kept meaning more. I noticed everything—how she holds her breath before speaking, bites her lip when she thinks, how she pretends not to care but listens to every word I say. We didn’t talk at first; but we just kept finding each other.”

Ume lifted her gaze, waiting.

“And then we stopped pretending it wasn’t there,” Yuzu whispered. “We started being together, for real. Mei hardly says what she feels, but she called me her lover. Do you know what a huge thing that was for her? I know her, Mama. I know her like—” She choked on the memory. “She’s the person I love more than anyone. I don’t want to lose her. I can’t let her destroy her life. She's carrying an engagement ring, I got for her, like mine, here!” she proudly held her hand out, trembling  as restraint gave way. "Because we want to get married some day!"

“I’m so empty inside. I wake up crazy and see her beside me. I cry myself to sleep. I would lay at her feet if she’d come back. Please—please don’t hate me.” The words tumbled in a sob. “Tell me it’s wrong, tell me I’m too young, tell me it’s impossible—but it’s not. I need you to know she’s mine. She’s the only one I want.”

“You’re hurting, precious baby,” came the soft words, "You’re still afraid I’ll be angry. Don’t be.” She held her child tenderly.

Tears of both pain, and relief streamed down Yuzu’s face. She swallowed hard. Images flooded her—Mei’s lashes on her cheek, the curl of her hand at the nape of her neck, the tilt of her smile, the taste of her lips. “Sometimes I think I should be ashamed, but I’m not.” She laughed, fragile. “I’m so in love, Mama. I can’t think straight. A part of me died the night she left. It gets worse every day.”

Yuzu shifted until her knee brushed the other's; the contact steadied her. “You said you were afraid I’d hate you,” Ume repeated. “Do people who love each other deserve hate at home?”

Yuzu’s eyes stung. “I was scared you’d hate me for making family complicated. I was scared you’d think I was broken. So many people hate what's different. I won’t have kids, I won’t have a husband. I’m—” She let her head fall, gold hair shading her face.

“You’re not broken. You’re honest. And hurting,” Ume said, squeezing her hand.

“But it’s Mei,” the girl insisted, urgency thick in her voice. “You and Papa Shou—” She faltered, unsure whether to finish.

Ume nodded. “Yes. we did bring you together as family. I hoped you’d care for each other. I didn’t know how that would look, or that you were both gay. But real love—” She exhaled, remembering. “It arrives in forms you don’t plan for.”

Yuzu waited.

“Before you were born,” Ume began, “I was in love with your father. We were young, scared, with little money. When I found out I was pregnant, most people called it a mistake. Jon didn’t. He looked at me like you already existed for him.” Her smile was small and private. “We were afraid, yes. We didn’t know how we’d manage. But we kept choosing each other.”

Yuzu listened, hands tight in her lap. The image of her father—half-memory, half-story—came into focus as her mother’s voice softened.

“We were judged,” the memory continued. “Money was tight. Nights we didn’t know how we’d pay for rice. But there was stubborn, loyal love that kept us upright. People judged us, but fear will try to buy you a life of small, safe rooms. What matters is who keeps you warm at night, who waits when you cannot breathe, who laughs at your terrible jokes.”

Yuzu smiled softly. “That sounds like Mei,” she said. Mei’s rare, sudden laughter touched her memory. “Even when it’s hard—maybe especially then—she’s worth it. She’s so damned worth it.”

"My daughter has been growing  into a young woman and I didn't even notice. The drinking has got to stop now!" her mother thought.

“Sometimes she lights rooms the way sunlight finds cracks,” Ume said. She watched Yuzu with clear-eyed steadiness. “But loving someone of the same sex won’t be easy for you. I won’t pretend.”

Yuzu’s fingers tightened. A warm, no-nonsense hand closed over hers. “Honey, I see how deep your fear and pain go. Hear me: I will always be your mother. My job is to love you. You don't need anyone’s approval to exist—you’ve done nothing wrong. Approval is tidy; love is messy. It argues, it burns the toast sometimes. But it keeps you whole. But understand, this tender harbor called love is fraught with ways to be hurt. ”

Ume set aside the cloth she’d been folding, reached for a small lacquer box on the shelf, and opened it. She removed a bundle of old letters, their edges softened by time, and held them out to Yuzu with a simple, deliberate gesture.

“These are from before you were born,” she said. “From when Jon and I were figuring out how to be together. We were fifteen. Sound familiar?” She tapped the top envelope. “I saved them not because they’re tidy, but because they’re honest. Read them when you want.”

Yuzu took the letters like someone given a map. Her father’s handwriting—angular, urgent—traced familiar paths on the page. As she touched the ink she felt a sudden closeness to a man she mostly knew through stories and photographs. A small ache for the absent father rose in her like fog.

Ume continued, her voice steady. “There will be people telling you what life should look like—teachers, relatives, friends. Some will call what you and Mei feel wrong. Others, quieter, will love you regardless. You’ll have to choose whose voices to heed.”

Her face softened with the kind of grief mothers learn to carry.

“You cannot make another person belong to you, Yuzu. Love isn’t possession; it’s mutual. If Mei chooses a path away from you, it will hurt. You’ll carry that pain. But true love doesn’t vanish. It changes shape and leaves structures for support And if Mei feels like you do, you have a chance to win her back. Because, Yuzu… that would mean she loves only you. Marriage to a man can’t work for her.”

Yuzu let the words fall in and settle like rain. “So... I don’t lose you because of this?”

“You will not. This will test you. It will be hard. There will be ignorant things said, bigoted rejection,  and days your heart will bruise. But I have always chosen to be there for you.” She spoke the last words like a garment she’d worn quietly for years. “I told you about Jon because love often looks like disaster on paper and like home when you’re standing in it.”

Yuzu pressed her forehead to her palm, picturing her parents young and reckless and steadied by each other. “I want Mei to be happy,” she murmured. “Even if it’s not with me.”

“Then let that guide you. If your love wants Mei to flourish rather than be collapsed into your arms, then you’re already doing the hard work. The rest is time and courage.”

A long exhale escaped Yuzu, as if permission had been granted to breathe.

Ume took both her hands. “Life will be harder in some ways because of who you love. There will be nights you feel alone in a crowded room. But there will also be moments so bright you remember why you chose this path. If you and Mei love each other with the constancy I had with your father, you can build something that lasts.”

Tears gathered again in Yuzu’s eyes—less painful than relieved, like a wound finally touched and set. “I can only guess how much you and Dad worried,” she said.

“All the time, ”Ume admitted. “We worried about money, acceptance, the small things. But we had a stubborn fidelity to each other. We made a home full of laughter, arguments, and obstinacy. We were not saints. We were two people choosing each other every day.

"Know this: I support you.”

Yuzu rested her forehead against her mother's shoulder and steadied by that pledge, whispered, “Then help me. Help me show Mei I’m not asking her to carry me alone.”

"Whatever I can do, I will help.” 

Before Yuzu left, Ume stood and went to the small shrine in the corner. She took down a faded photograph of Jon and set it on the low altar—him laughing, hair tousled, a cigarette awkward between fingers. She touched the glass. “He would be proud of you,” she said, to the photograph and to the girl before her.

Yuzu watched, gratitude and grief mingling. “Do you... think he would have liked Mei?” she asked.

That earned a soft laugh. “Jon had bad taste in music and good taste in people. He would have liked her. He would have wanted you both to be brave and happy.”

Yuzu smoothed her skirt, the ring on her finger catching the light like a small lighthouse. “Thank you, Mama,” she said—both formal and intimate.

Ume hugged her; the embrace smelled of detergent and the day’s cooking, the smell of endurance. “Go to her when you find a way,” she whispered into Yuzu’s hair. “But go with your eyes open. Hear what she says. Love is brave, yes, but it is also honest.”

They held for a long minute. When Yuzu finally stepped back, her shoulders were steadier. The confession hadn’t solved everything—the wedding still loomed, Mei might choose otherwise—but she was no longer utterly alone in the truth. Her mother’s acceptance was not a clean victory, but it was real, and that made all the difference.

They sat as light softened into evening. The kettle had long since cooled; the air still carried miso and a faint lemon scent. The little kitchen felt like a harbor where battered boats might be mended before setting out again.

Yuzu left with a firmer step. The hall light painted the outside world thin and determined. Behind her, Ume returned to the small shrine and touched Jon’s photograph as if closing a circle of years with a single gesture.

EPILOGUE:

Ume hummed an off‑key song she and Jon had sung. It was simple, familiar, more to keep the house breathing than to celebrate. The day had bled into a forgiving blue when she stood at the sink and, with a slow, deliberate hand, began pouring cans of sake down the drain. Each metallic clink and the thin hiss of liquid felt like a small, stubborn ceremony: a refusal, a promise. Her movements were careful and practiced. Years of evenings half-drowned in drink, of bottles and cans bought to salve a tiredness and pain that never quite left. She had once loved the edge the alcohol offered, the way it blurred cold nights and numbed heartache, until it began to bruise the mornings and the patient work of loving became harder to do. Tonight she emptied them without haste, and purposefully,  making room for something steadier.

A single lamp spilled a pool of warm light across the table. Ume picked up one of the letters Yuzu had held earlier and read Jon’s looping handwriting by that lamp—youthful, earnest lines full of promises and small, vulnerable jokes that sounded exactly like the man their family remembered. She smiled, steadying herself on memories that were both ache and instruction.

She thought of Yuzu—how she had grown into a fierce, exposed soul, how fear had curled around her heart—and of Mei, who had once seemed so closed-off but had learned, in secret, to let love in. The thought of them together tightened something in Ume’s chest: a protective, ferocious tenderness that left no room for judgment. She had been angry at the world more than once; she had been ashamed of nights she’d lost to the bottle; she had woken with guilt like a stone in her throat. But every sober morning had returned her to the same truth: she would not abandon her children to loneliness or shame. Her love for Yuzu was fierce and immediate; for Mei it was an emergent affection braided with gratitude, grateful that the girl who made Yuzu happy existed, grateful that a new kind of family had found its awkward, brave shape under her roof.

She touched the paper lightly, as if blessing the promises written there. Some vows, she thought, travel in secret at first, growing in the dark until they are strong enough to stand in the open. Some families are held together by stubbornness and second chances, by nights of soup and hands held through dark corridors and by forgiving the self that chose the bottle more times than it meant to.

Ume set the letter down and walked to the small shrine. She lifted Jon’s faded photograph, fingers trembling only a little, and laid it against the altar as if returning a debt of memory. “He would be proud,” she told the empty room and the sleeping city beyond the window. Her voice was small and absolute.

With Yuzu gone now, the hush of the apartment had a different weight—less the brittle quiet of unspoken things and more the attentive hush of survivors making a plan. Ume stood for a long time by the sink, hands wrapped around a mug gone cold, thinking of the work ahead: the conversations, the slights they would endure, the days when courage would feel too thin. She felt the old familiar tug toward a drink, the easy lie of oblivion, and met it with a steadier resolve: she would fight that old comfort and choose presence instead.

She went to the girls' room and smoothed the rumpled blanket as if smoothing a forehead. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and, alone under the lamp’s small halo, let herself speak into the quiet. “I love you,” she whispered—both apology and vow—“and I love Mei. I will keep you safe all I can. I will stand with you when it hurts. I will be sober for you.”

The words settled into the room like a charter. Ume felt them root where fear had lived. For a long moment she simply listened: to the slow breath of the building, to the far-off murmur of late trains, to the small, steady beating of a love that had chosen to remain and to be brave.

Later, after she had placed the emptied cans in the bin and turned the lock on the door, she paused at the threshold of the living room and looked back at the soft pool of lamplight on the table, at the shrine, at the letters. She traced the edge of one envelope with a fingertip, then clasped her hands like sealing a pact, and whispered, “We will be brave enough.”

Outside, the city moved on in indifferent lights. Inside, the apartment held a new kind of quiet. One laced with resolve, with the ragged, tender knowledge that love does not erase fear but learns to outlast it.