Chapter 142 – Ordeal

This time, the cold air didn’t faze me.

This time, I didn’t wait for the hot water.

This time, I finished washing my face without getting my hair wet.

This time, instead of sitting down at the table right away, I said, “What’s this? You brought the water?”

Clatter.

“With ice, even?”

“Refreshing, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is.”

I immediately picked up my chopsticks and placed a perfectly cooked potato and the best-looking piece of meat onto Dad’s rice bowl.

“What’s all this now? Are you my food taster?” he asked.

“Pfft… Yep.”

“Well, I wouldn’t die from poison anyway.”

“Exactly. That’s why… you’re the perfect taste tester.”

“You little rascal.”

His words were teasing, but his smile was warm. Dad grinned, stuffing the food I’d given him into his mouth all at once.

“Ow, hot! Eat up.”

Despite the steaming food, his flushed face, and the pained expression, he busily piled potatoes and meat onto my rice bowl. Mirroring his smile, I crammed a mouthful in.

The potato was hard.
The meat was tough.
The soup was bland.
The rice was mushy.

…This is awful.

“Edible?” Dad asked.

Still chewing the stubbornly resistant meat, I nodded.

“Right? Haha! A discerning palate appreciates this. Eat up, son.”

His rough hand reached out, a gesture masking his guilt and gratitude. Feeling its weight, I forced the food down.

Once I’d finally swallowed, a more tender piece of meat and a perfectly formed slice of tofu appeared on my bowl. Dad always ate the less appealing bits, leaving the best for Mom and me. Every meal, the tastiest morsels were always ours first. He hated moving during meals, yet if Mom or I needed water, he’d fetch it instantly, without complaint.

He’d secretly pick flowers for Mom, only to be scolded every time.

He possessed an uncanny awareness of Mom’s moods, even skipping lunch to buy her something delicious.

He always picked Mom up from work.

Chocolates in February.
Candy in March.
Gifts in May.
Pepero in November.
Presents tucked into socks in December.

Anniversaries.
Mom’s birthday.
My birthday.

He always took time off for our special days, yet on his own birthday, he worked harder than ever.

My loving Dad.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“How… how can you be like this?”

“…What’s that supposed to mean? Is the food… not good?”

“No… I mean, I’m not even your real son… but you treat me like I am.”

Dad’s face registered surprise. He set down his spoon with a clatter and sat up straight.

“Where’d that come from? Did someone say something to you? Which little…”

“No… It’s not that… I was just… curious.”

Curious.
Worried.
Afraid.
Terrified.

Clatter. Dad carefully picked up his chopsticks again, sighed softly, and selected a well-cooked potato.

“Because you’re family,” he said, placing it gently on my bowl with a warm smile. “Do I need another reason?”

I put the potato in my mouth.

Soft.
Warm.

I couldn’t smile.

***

“Oh, Noah? What are you doing here? Where’s your dad?”

“He came too… He’s over there.”

“Is that so? Why aren’t you in the car, then?”

“I wanted to see you, Mom. Heehee…”

“What’s gotten into you today?”

Mom’s hand, stroking my hair, trembled slightly.

“Have you been crying, Noah?”

“Uh… no?”

“Really?”

My throat tightened. I managed a small nod. Mom studied me with a knowing smile, then took my hand.

“My, your hands are freezing! Let’s go inside. I’ll make some doenjang jjigae tonight.”

“Yay…”

Mom’s hands were red, rough, chapped, and cracked.

Yet, so gentle.

I held her hand tight as we walked.

“Did you have lunch?” she asked.

“Yeah… Dad made it.”

“Oh? What did he make?”

“…Doenjang jjigae.”

“Oh my.”

Mom chuckled.

“How was it?”

“It… it was good.”

“Tsk, tsk, Noah. Mothers have a sixth sense about these things.”

Her finger tapped my lips playfully, then gently caressed my cheek.

“Mm… it… it wasn’t good.”

“I knew it.”

Mom’s arms enveloped me in a hug. The air puffed out of her worn winter coat.

“I’ll make you a delicious one when we get home.”

“Sniff…hic…”

I nodded, burying my face in her coat.

As my sobs subsided, Mom asked, “By the way, has your dad mentioned any plans?”

“Hic… what?”

“Our anniversary is the day after tomorrow. I’m always a bit nervous about what he’ll come up with… Has he said anything to you?”

“Uh… ah…”

Mom gently pulled back.

“It’s our 20th… Did he at least get some balloons?”

“No…”

“Maybe he used our emergency fund to buy a ring?”

“Um…”

Mom grinned at my expression and placed a hot pack in my hand.

“I wonder if he even knows my ring size.” Humming cheerfully, she headed toward Dad’s car.

***

A warm meal at home.

Secretly choosing a ring with Dad.

Joining Dad in the living room for tangerines.

Sitting around the low table.

Watching a rather depressing documentary.

Popping a tangerine segment into Dad’s fuming mouth.

Offering another to Mom as she sighed wearily.

Then, I spoke.

“Dad?”

Dad finished chewing his half-peeled tangerine and swallowed.

“Yeah?”

“If… if Mom and I were drowning… you have to save Mom first. Okay?”

Dad’s eyebrows shot up.

“What’s that about?”

Mom, too, looked puzzled.

“I… I take after you, Dad. I have the superhuman gene. So… you should save Mom first. She’s just a normal person.”

“Noah, where is this coming from?” Mom asked.

“I… had a bad dream last night. Heehee…”

I leaned against Mom, looping my arm through hers, breathing in her familiar, comforting scent. Dad chuckled.

“Noah, you’re just a small-time superhuman. A real hero like your dad can save both of you.” He pulled Mom and me into a hug, his voice booming with confidence. “Don’t worry. I’ll save you both, no matter what.”

“…No, Dad… you have to save Mom.”

Dad’s embrace tightened.

“Trust me, okay?”

“Hic… sniff… but… hic… Dad, you have to save Mom—”

“It’s alright. Everything will be alright. Whatever happens, I’ll take care of it. Our family just needs to trust Dad.”

***

Tap, tap, tap. I watched Mom expertly slice radishes.

“Mom?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you… like helping people?”

Mom stopped, knife poised, and looked at me.

“Why do you ask?”

“Just… you’re making side dishes for the neighbors again.”

“Well…” She resumed chopping, a subtle smile playing on her lips. “To be honest, not really.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“Because they need it.” She slid the neatly sliced radishes into a pot and retrieved a large, steaming piece of meat from the pressure cooker. “Because there are people who need my small acts of kindness.”

“But it’s hard for you, Mom.”

“But it makes me happy.” Wearing plastic gloves, she shredded the meat, beaming at me. “When I wake up, when I work, when I come home from work, when I cook dinner, before I go to bed, even when I’m sick — I’m always happy. Because of our family.”

She popped a piece of meat into my mouth.

“It’s not local beef, but just pretend we’re in Australia. See? Tender, right?”

Mom always thought positively.

Instead of criticizing, she sought to understand.

Despite the judgment and stares because of her burns, she always smiled.

She even wore a mask to my school, worried I’d be teased.

Morning, noon, night, and bedtime — she told me she loved me at least four times a day.

Helping others brought her joy.

She was perceptive, understanding my unspoken desires and worries.

Even when she inherited my two-year-old phone, she’d declared it fantastic, marveling at the “new technology.”

My loving Mom.

“Mom?”

“Hmm? Want more?”

“…I love you.”

“…I love you too, Noah.”

Careful not to brush her gloves against me, she embraced me. I hugged her tight.

Just a little longer.

I wanted to hold onto this happiness.

I didn’t want it to end.

“Let’s take the food to the neighbors together, Mom.”