Chapter 139 – Ordeal

I grabbed a hair tie from the desk and pulled my hair back, wincing at the tightness. I loosened it slightly, then checked my reflection.

Messy. Uneven. Stray hairs sticking out everywhere.

My pajamas, even the smallest size, were too big, the sleeves and legs folded and stitched.

I didn’t know how to sew. Who had done this?

I couldn’t remember.

I left the room.

A small bowl of lukewarm stew sat on the table.

“Eat up. We have work to do.”

“Okay.”

I sat down. Three ice cubes floated in my barley tea, a thoughtful touch.

The cup was cold, but the tea warmed me from the inside. I took a sip, rinsing my mouth, then picked up my spoon.

Dad had already cut everything into bite-sized pieces.

I smiled, and began to eat. Rice. Stew. Potato. Meat.

“Dad…your stew is better than Mom’s.”

“Right? Only people with refined palates appreciate my culinary genius. Hahaha!” He ruffled my hair, his hand rough against my scalp.

I savored the stew. Perfectly seasoned. Delicious.

Peaceful.

Happy.

Except…the stew was too salty, the rice mushy, the potatoes undercooked, and the meat…cheap and fatty.

“So…what are we doing for your anniversary?”

“It’s our twentieth. I’ve been saving up.”

“…Didn’t Mom catch you hiding money last time?”

“She was just pouting.” He smiled, a warm, mischievous glint in his eyes. “Anyway, I’m getting her a ring.”

“A ring?”

“Yeah. She doesn’t have one. I’m getting one for Mom, me, and you.”

“Me…?”

“Why? You don’t want one?” He raised an eyebrow.

“No… It’s just… Shouldn’t it be…just for you and Mom…?”

“Why leave you out? You’re family.”

Family.

“…Okay.”

I focused on my food, shoveling the mushy rice into my mouth.

“Rings, flowers, a letter…”

“The usual, then.”

The flowers weren’t store-bought, of course. He always picked them from the garden behind the fire station.

“Yeah. But I have something…
special
planned this year.”

I chewed on a piece of gristly meat, tilting my head curiously.

“Noah. I need your help. This is…important.” He grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

What was he planning?

***

Beep. Squeak. Squeal.

The sound of balloons being inflated filled the room.

“Huff… Dad… I’m dizzy…”

“Already? After all that food?”

“There are too many! Three hundred balloons?! And I have to blow them up myself?!”

“I’m helping! Now hurry up!”

Ffffffffffffft.

He inflated a balloon in a single breath. Like some kind of…superhero.

It took me two or three tries.

I stared at the deflated balloon in my hand.

“Did you…blow up three hundred balloons…when you proposed to Mom…?”

Dad nodded, tying off another balloon.

“Didn’t have much back then. Just…balloons. Blew them up until I nearly passed out. Hahaha…” His smile was warm, filled with a nostalgic fondness.

“What…did you like…about Mom…?”

“Like…? Nothing…specific… Just…” He scratched his head, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. He picked up another balloon. “…everything.”

His expression…so earnest…it made
me
blush.

“Ew, Dad. Gross.”

“Hey! Don’t make me feel self-conscious!”

Smack!

“Ow! What was that for?!”

“Blow up the balloons!”

“Geez…” Rubbing my forehead, I started inflating another balloon.

An hour that felt like ten crawled by.

Finally…it was over.

One hundred balloons. Dad had done two hundred.

“Alright. Time to move them.”

“…All of them?”

“Yep.”

“…Where?”

“To the car.”

“…Why?”

“It’s a surprise. For the anniversary.” He grinned, gathering the balloons.

Twenty balloons per bundle.

Fifteen bundles…

“This is so much work…”

“I’ll buy you meat.”

“…We’re already going out for meat…”

Dad hesitated. “…Not all-you-can-eat. Real barbecue.”

“…Really?”

“A man’s word is his bond.”

“Deal.”

I grabbed a bundle of balloons and stood.

Dad smiled, opening the door.

“I don’t mind all-you-can-eat… I like the tteokbokki there…”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. I always eat a ton. So…let’s just go there.”

“…Alright.”

Thump. Thump.

The sound of his worn socks on the cold floor.

And then, a soft, almost…inaudible whisper.

“I’m sorry.”

I pressed my lips together, swinging the balloons, trying to dispel the heavy weight of his words.

But the sadness in his posture…remained.

***

“Honey, why does the house smell like…rubber?”

“Wh-what smell?!” Dad and I froze.

“Hmm…now that you mention it…it
does
… Is it coming from next door?”

Dad’s eyes darted towards me, pleading.

“Um…maybe? Sometimes…smells come through the vents…”

“What are they
doing
over there?” Mom sniffed the air, then shrugged. “I’ll have to ask them tomorrow. I was meaning to go over there anyway.”

Dad gulped down water, his eyes still fixed on me, pleading.

I shook my head. I couldn’t do it. Mom was…too perceptive.

“So,” Dad said, his voice a little too loud in the sudden silence, “how’s the new family? Treating you well?”

“Oh, they’re nice. It’s a bit tiring, helping with the baths, but…they’re good people.”

“That’s good.” He smiled, genuinely relieved.

“Why the sudden interest?” Mom asked.

“Oh, a guy at work, his wife’s a caregiver too. He was saying the family she’s with is…difficult. So I was just…worried.”

“Oh… Are they giving you a hard time about the scars again?”

Dad flinched, dropping a spoonful of stew.

“No! Just…worried you were…overworking yourself…”

“It’s fine. They don’t seem to mind. If anything, they try not to…stare. They’re very…considerate.”

Dad’s lips twitched, his expression a mixture of relief and…something else.

“That’s…good. Really good.”

“You’re such a worrywart. It’s cute.” Mom set the tea kettle down, poking Dad’s cheek playfully.

“‘Younger’… Once you’re over forty, it’s all the same.” He took her hand, his large, calloused fingers gently massaging hers.

Was he…checking her ring size?

Mom smiled, looking at me.

“Four years is still younger, isn’t it, Noah?”

Their gazes locked onto mine.

“Um…yeah…four years is…definitely younger…”

“See?” Mom grinned.

“Ugh…”

I avoided Dad’s betrayed glare, focusing on my food.

The potatoes were perfectly cooked. The stew, perfectly seasoned. It was…delicious.

Mom was the best.

Dad continued to fumble with Mom’s ring finger.

He was so busted.

***

“Well? Traitor.”

“…Four years
is
younger…”

“Was the stew
that
good?”

“Ugh…” I averted my gaze, sliding onto the seat beside him.

“Did you pick out the rings?”

He glared at me, then handed me his phone, the gallery app open.

Pictures of Mom and me.

And at the top…six images of rings.

I tapped the first one.

“Hmm…not quite right.”

Next.

“Too thin for you, Dad.”

Next.

“Ew. Gangster ring.”

Next.

And then…the fifth image.

“…Huh?”

A strange sense of familiarity.

A silver band, a blue gem.

The name of the ring:

RuBia.