Chapter 27: Family House pt 2

I stood there, holding the birthday gifts I’d carefully picked out, feeling like an idiot.

Wherever.

I set them down on the side table near the entrance, next to a vase of fresh flowers that I knew my mother had probably arranged herself.

They looked pathetic next to the flowers.

Small. Cheap. Inadequate.

I took a breath and headed toward the kitchen.

The kitchen smelled incredible.

Garlic and sesame oil. Soy sauce and gochugaru. The rich, savory scent of marinated galbi sizzling on the stove. The sweet, earthy aroma of miyeok-guk simmering in a pot.

It was the same feast my mother made every year for my father’s birthday.

Elaborate. Time-consuming. Perfect.

She was standing at the counter, julienning vegetables with the kind of aggressive precision that made me nervous. The knife hit the cutting board in rapid, rhythmic thwacks, each one sharp and final.

I washed my hands at the sink, dried them on the towel hanging nearby, and stood there awkwardly.

Waiting for instructions.

She didn’t look at me.

Just kept chopping.

The only sounds in the kitchen were the knife, the bubbling pots, and the faint hum of the refrigerator.

It was suffocating.

Finally, she gestured to a pile of vegetables on the counter.

“Peel those. Then chop them. Small pieces. Uniform.”

I nodded and got to work.

We stood side by side, working in silence.

I was hyper-aware of every movement. Every breath. The way her jaw was tight. The way her shoulders were tense.

I wanted to say something.

Anything.

But my mind was blank.

What do you say to a mother who looks at you like you’re a burden?

I was halfway through peeling a carrot when the kitchen door swung open.

Nick walked in, all casual confidence, like he owned the place.

“Mom, I’m starving,” he said, flashing that easy smile. “Can I get a snack?”

My mother’s entire demeanor changed.

The tension in her shoulders melted. Her face softened. She actually smiled.

“Of course, baby.” She set down her knife and moved to the stove, pulling out a small plate. “Here, try this.”

She plated a few pieces of galbi, arranged them beautifully, even added a garnish of sesame seeds and green onion.

Nick took the plate, grinning. “You’re the best, Mom.”

He glanced at me.

Our eyes met.

His expression didn’t change, but something cold flickered in his gaze.

Resentment. Contempt.

Like I was an intruder in his house.

I stared back, feeling that old, familiar anger twist in my gut.

The anger I’d been carrying for years.

The anger I’d never been allowed to express.

Nick turned and left without another word, taking his perfectly plated snack with him.

The door swung shut.

And the silence returned.

My mother went back to her vegetables.

I went back to peeling.

And the suffocating weight pressed down on me even harder.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

I had to say something. Anything.

“So…” I started carefully, keeping my eyes on the carrot in my hands. “How have you and Dad been?”

“Fine.”

She didn’t look up.

The knife kept hitting the cutting board.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

I waited for her to elaborate.

She didn’t.

Okay. Try again.

“The house looks nice,” I said, forcing a lightness into my voice that I didn’t feel. “Did you redecorate?”

“Hmm.”

Not even a real word. Just a sound.

Like I was background noise.

I bit the inside of my cheek and kept peeling.

The silence stretched.

My chest felt tighter with every passing second.

“How’s your back been?” I asked, trying harder now. “I remember you said it was bothering you last month. And your eyes… did you ever go to that optometrist I suggested?”

“It’s fine.” She finally glanced at me, but only to gesture at the carrots I was working on. “Keep chopping. Those pieces are uneven.”

My heart squeezed.

But I tried again.

Because I always tried again.

“Work has been really busy lately,” I said, forcing a cheerful tone. “We got a new CEO and there’s been so much restructuring. It’s kind of chaotic, actually. There’s this woman in accounting who… ”

“I don’t need your life story, Noah.”

Her voice was sharp now. Cutting.

“Just focus.”

I stopped mid-sentence, the words dying in my throat.

She went back to chopping.

I went back to peeling.

But something in me refused to give up.

Some desperate, pathetic part of me that still thought maybe, maybe, if I just found the right words, she’d actually listen.

“I’ve been pulling a lot of late nights,” I said quietly. “The workload is pretty intense. My new boss is… demanding.”

She clicked her tongue. “Everyone works hard. Don’t complain.”

“I’m not complaining,” I said quickly. “I’m just… ”

“Then stop talking and focus on what I asked you to do.”

My hands trembled slightly as I picked up another carrot.

But I kept going.

“I’ve barely been sleeping,” I said, voice barely above a whisper now. “The workload is just… it’s a lot. And I’ve been having to stay late almost every night. Yesterday I didn’t get home until… ”

The knife slammed down on the cutting board.

The sound made me flinch.

“Can you just SHUT UP and focus on what I asked you to do?!”

Her voice was loud. Sharp. Angry.

“I don’t have time for your complaining!”

She turned and stormed out of the kitchen, leaving me standing there alone.

The knife was still trembling in my hand.

My vision blurred.

I blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall.

Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry.

I took a shaky breath and went back to chopping.

Each cut was mechanical. Robotic.

Chop. Chop. Chop.

My hands moved on autopilot while my brain shut down completely.

Because if I let myself think… if I let myself feel… I’d fall apart right here in this kitchen.

And I couldn’t do that.

Not here.

Not in front of them.

So I chopped vegetables in silence, swallowing down every emotion, every hurt, every desperate plea for acknowledgment.

Just like I always did.

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