Six years had passed.
Six years of silence. Six years of not knowing if my child even existed, if he was safe, if he was happy. Six years of grinding through life, scrubbing floors, serving tables, going back to adult school at night to learn what I should have known years ago. I had learned to live in quiet, to survive. To hold onto a hollow strength that kept me moving forward, even when my heart screamed for what I had lost.
But nothing could have prepared me for that day.
The doorbell rang like a bell tolling in a graveyard.
I was used to hearing nothing. A delivery man, the landlord, a neighbor complaining about noise—but that sound, that sudden sharp ring, set my pulse racing.
When I opened the door, he was there.
Kang.
And in his arms, a small boy. A real, living boy. He had blonde hair and kang's brown eyes.
My chest froze. The boy looked up at me with wide, shy eyes. His small hands clutched Kang's coat as if it were the only thing keeping him safe.
"Kang…?" I breathed, my voice catching.
"I'm leaving him," Kang said simply, tossing the boy toward me with a casual, almost careless motion. "I don't have time. He's yours now."
The boy stumbled into my arms, unsteady, timid. I caught him reflexively, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Kang had left without explanation, without a word. "Take care of him," he had said. His coat hung loosely over his shoulders as if he were shedding responsibility like an old skin. And then he was gone.
The first moments were almost unbearable.
He clung to me, shyly, his small hands pressing against my chest as if he could find safety in the heartbeat I barely remembered to slow. His lips trembled, forming words that pierced me with a cruel, ironic weight.
"Who is my mommy?"
I froze.
The words echoed in my mind, bouncing off the walls of the small apartment, the ones that had been my prison for six years. My throat tightened. My stomach knotted.
He tilted his head, searching my face for answers, his eyes wide, hesitant, and—most heartbreakingly—innocent. "Is it… Minji?"
I felt my knees buckle, but I held him tighter, swallowing the sob that rose up like a storm.
No.
Not yet.
I couldn't say it. Couldn't break him with truths he had never been prepared to hold. Couldn't shatter the world he had constructed in six years, however flawed.
I shook my head slowly, forcing my voice into something soft, something I hoped would soothe him. "No… not right now. You… you can just stay with me for now."
His small hand rubbed against my chest instinctively, and my heart broke in ways I hadn't thought possible. This was my son—my flesh, my blood—and yet, to him, I was a stranger. Someone who hadn't been there when he needed me most. Someone who had failed him.
I pressed my forehead to his soft curls, inhaling the faint scent of shampoo, of a child who had grown without me. His eyes blinked up at mine, unsure, trusting, searching for answers I didn't have.
"Do you… do you want me to be your mommy?" I asked softly, my voice trembling so much I could barely hear it over the roar of my own heart.
He shook his head, tiny and hesitant. "I… I want… Minji."
The word landed in my chest like a hammer.
Minji.
The name carried six years of absence, six years of imagining myself in a world where my son had grown up loved, safe, happy—without me. And now it echoed in my ears, a bitter reminder of everything I had lost.
I forced myself to smile. "That's… okay," I whispered, my lips quivering. "That's okay. You can… call me whatever you want for now."
He pressed closer, small arms wrapping around my neck, and I let him. I let the warmth of his body, the trust he still offered me despite the years, seep into my bones. But the pain never left. The guilt, the grief, the knowledge that I had abandoned him even before I had the chance to know him—it pressed down on me, suffocating.
"What's your name little one?"
*
"Jihwa."
When night came, I sat on the floor with him pressed against my side, feeding him soup I had made in silence. He ate slowly, shyly, not meeting my eyes. I watched him chew, memorized every small movement, every hesitant glance. Each one was a reminder of the years stolen from me, of the moments I would never get back.
"Jihwa," I whispered softly, brushing the hair from his forehead. "I… I know this is… confusing. I should have been here. I should have held you, fed you, laughed with you… I should have been your mommy."
He blinked up at me, unsure. His small hand reached out, pressing against my chest as if he understood something he couldn't yet name.
"You… you're my son," I continued, voice breaking. "And I… I promise… I'll never let anything hurt you again."
He pressed closer, and for a moment, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of us. My son, six years old, trembling in my arms. My heart ached, but it beat with a new purpose.
I realized, in that silent, painful night, that I could never undo the past. I could never reclaim the years lost. But I could start now. I could love him, protect him, be here for him in the ways I had failed before.
And though he didn't call me Mommy, though he still clung to the name of another woman, I held him tighter, whispering into his ear:
"I'm here, Jihwa. I'm here, and I won't leave again."
The silence of the apartment stretched around us, heavy and oppressive, but for the first time in years, it didn't feel entirely empty.
Because six years of absence had ended, and though the path ahead would be hard, uncertain, and painful, I had my son in my arms. And that, even for a brief moment, was enough to keep breathing.
The apartment felt smaller with Jihwa there. Every corner, every shadow seemed to echo with the years of absence, with the weight of six stolen years. I tried to feed him, tried to keep him clean, tried to act like I had even a shred of control—but nothing erased the crushing reality: this boy, my son, was not mine in his memories, not yet.
He was shy, quiet, hesitant. But the thing that froze me most wasn't his timidity—it was his eyes.
The sharp, almost cruel angle of them. The way his gaze could pierce through walls, through shadows, through the quiet I had built around myself.
He had Kang's eyes.
The realization hit me like a stone to the chest. I had carried Kang's child, yes—but this… this small, living, breathing boy carried Kang's presence in every glance, every glance that met mine.
I froze as he looked at me one evening, the dim light from the kitchen casting soft shadows across his small face.
"You… you look like him," I whispered, more to myself than to him.
Jihwa tilted his head, unsure, small brows furrowed. "Who?"
"Your… your father," I muttered, my voice trembling. The words felt like acid in my mouth. The child's face didn't show recognition—it couldn't—but the resemblance was there inescapable. The set of his jaw, the curve of his nose, the way his eyes seemed to measure, to judge, to see through you with a precision that terrified me.
I swallowed hard, my hands tightening around the dish I had been washing. My knuckles turned white. Every flicker of movement, every quiet breath, reminded me of Kang—the coldness, the control, the ruthless clarity that had haunted me for years.
Jihwa shuffled closer, clutching the edge of the table, still too shy to speak, too quiet to announce himself. But his eyes… his eyes didn't look like a child's should. They looked like a ma. A man who could cut without thought, who observed without warmth.
I wanted to hold him. I wanted to gather him into my arms. But I couldn't. Not yet. The fear, the guilt, the unbearable weight of seeing Kang reflected in my child made me recoil.
"You… you're… you're Kang's," I whispered again, as if speaking aloud might make it less real, might break the spell that bound me to the past I had spent six years trying to bury.
He blinked, uncertain, and I realized the danger of my thoughts. I couldn't let him see my fear. I couldn't let him know that already, six years later, I saw in him the man who had broken me.
And yet, the truth was unavoidable.
The more I looked at Jihwa, the more I saw the shadow of Kang etched into his small features—the sharpness of his gaze, the quiet intelligence, the way he didn't ask for comfort even when he needed it.
I pressed my palms to my face, shaking. "This… this isn't fair," I whispered into the empty apartment, into the silence that hung heavier than any voice. "I lost you once… and now… now I see him in you."
Jihwa shuffled closer to the window, looking out at the city lights, unaware of the storm swirling inside me. I wanted to reach out. I wanted to scoop him up and tell him everything. But I couldn't. I had no right. He didn't know me, didn't trust me, and I was terrified of being the same shadow Kang had been—the one who left scars, invisible but permanent.
I leaned against the wall, my heart pounding, every muscle taut with the weight of my failure and my fear. Six years gone, and now this—this living reminder of the man who had taken everything from me.
I pressed a hand to my chest, whispering to the ghost of my son I had never held. "I… I can't… not yet. I'll survive for you, Jihwa. I'll stay. But I… I don't know if I can face… him… in your eyes."
The boy didn't answer. He couldn't. But his presence was enough to make the room ache with what had been lost and what I feared might never be mine to hold.
And in the quiet, I realized something chilling: the child I had waited six years for was already a mirror of the man who had abandoned me.
A mirror I wasn't sure I could ever look at without shattering.