They say secrets always come out eventually.
Ten years of marriage. Two kids. A home filled with laughter, memories, love. And yet, I threw it all into the fire for something fleeting—selfish moments behind closed doors, buried under excuses of long meetings and late-night work. I never thought my son would be the one to unravel it.
Junho is only nine, but he’s observant, too much like me for his own good. I didn’t even notice him watching me that day I got the call, stepping into the hallway to whisper back to the woman I should have never touched. I didn’t think twice when I left my phone on the table or when I said I had to stay late again.
I came home to silence.
Kaori was in the kitchen, her back to me, and Junho was sitting at the dining table, pale and quiet. My daughter, Yoori, clung to her plush toy, looking between all of us like she knew something was wrong but didn’t understand what.
Then Kaori turned around. Her eyes were red. Devastated.
"Is it true?" she asked. Her voice shook, but her hands didn’t. "Is there someone else?"
The world stopped. My gaze shot to Junho—his jaw clenched, eyes burning with betrayal.
He had told her.
Kaori didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She just looked at me like I was a stranger.
"I found the messages," she whispered. "Junho showed me. I didn’t want to believe him."
I tried to explain. Pathetic excuses. Regret. Shame. But none of it mattered. Not when the damage was done and my son had seen the worst version of his father. Not when Kaori stood in front of me, looking more hurt than I had ever seen her.
She left the room with Yoori. Junho followed, silent, shoulders tense.
I stood there alone.
That night, I slept on the couch. I could hear Yoori crying in the room down the hall, and Kaori’s soft voice trying to soothe her. But nothing could soothe the guilt clawing at my chest.
The next morning, Junho didn’t look at me. He passed me in the hallway like I wasn’t there. Kaori packed lunch for the kids like always, but didn’t say a word to me.
I knew then—I couldn’t fix this with flowers or apologies. I had to change.
I ended the affair that day. Permanently. Deleted everything. I showed up to therapy, alone at first. I took leave from work. I came home early. Cooked. Cleaned. I started writing letters—to Kaori, to Junho, even to Yoori who couldn’t read yet. I told them everything I never said. That I was sorry. That I wanted to be better. That they were my everything.
Weeks passed. Junho finally spoke to me again. Just once.
“Do you even love mom?” he asked.
“I never stopped,” I told him. “But I forgot how to show it. And I’m trying to remember again—if she’ll let me.”
He didn’t say anything else. But later that day, I found one of my letters missing from the drawer. The one addressed to Kaori.
There’s a long road ahead.
But I’m still walking it—toward her, toward our kids, toward redemption.