It was late, and the apartment had finally fallen into silence. Jaeyun was asleep—his breath slow and even from the next room—and Kaori had just lowered herself onto the couch beside me, one hand resting gently over her stomach. Her pregnancy had made her slower, yes, but somehow more grounded too. The soft light from the table lamp cast a warm glow over her face, easing the weariness in her eyes.

I closed the gradebook in my lap, setting it aside. I’d already read the signs: the way she fidgeted with the hem of her sweater, the way she looked at me but didn’t speak.

She was thinking—too much, probably.

“You’re quiet tonight,” I said gently.

Kaori exhaled, then met my gaze. “I’ve been going over everything again. The numbers. The deadlines. Jaeyun’s enrollment.”

Ah. Of course.

I sat up slightly, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “We still have time to—”

“We don’t, In-Hun,” she said, not harshly, just with quiet urgency. “Not really. If we want him to be considered for Shinmin, your school, the paperwork’s due in eight days. Recommendations, birth certificate, preschool transcripts… all of it.”

I nodded. I knew. I’d already helped four other families file theirs.

She studied my face. “I know we said Haebom was more realistic. And maybe it is. But I still think Shinmin is where he belongs. With you there. Guiding. Don’t you think that could mean something to him?”

I looked at her, heart tightening. “Kaori… it’s not that I don’t want that. You know I do. But you’ve seen the tuition. Even with my faculty discount, we can’t afford it. Not with another baby on the way. Not without cutting deep.”

She nodded, calm and steady. “What about scholarships? Full ones. Have you asked?”

That landed harder than I expected.

I looked down. “I’ve... thought about it.”

“Have you asked?”

I hesitated. “No. Not yet.”

She was quiet a moment. Then, “Why not?”

I exhaled. “Because it’s complicated. You know Shinmin. Merit-based scholarships go to kids who test off the charts. Need-based ones need board approval. If I say, ‘Consider my son,’ it might look like favoritism. Or worse—begging.”

“You wouldn’t be begging,” she said, voice firm. “You’d be advocating for your child. Like you do for every other student in your classroom.”

Her words landed like a challenge—but not an unkind one.

“I’ve seen what that school gives its kids,” she added. “Resources. Confidence. Structure. You became a teacher there for a reason, didn’t you? Because you believe in what it can do. So why not fight for our son to have that too?”

I looked at her—really looked. Her face was tired, her back likely aching, but still she met me head-on, strong and unwavering. She was thinking about both of them—Jaeyun and the daughter growing inside her. She wanted to give them more than we had. She always had.

“It’s not that I think Haebom is lesser,” she continued. “But when I picture him walking through your school’s halls, in his uniform, proud… it feels right. Not because it’s elite. But because you’re there. Because he’d see what’s possible and still feel safe.”

I swallowed.

“I’ll talk to the head of admissions tomorrow,” I said. “Discreetly. I’ll ask what’s possible. No promises.”

She smiled—a soft, grateful one. “That’s all I needed.”

“And if it doesn’t work?”

“Then we reassess,” she said. “Together. Like always.”

I reached over and took her hand in mine. Her fingers were warm, grounding.

“You know he wants to be an astronaut this week?” I said, trying to smile. “Told me at breakfast.”

She laughed. “Last week it was a tiger trainer.”

“Before that, a librarian.”

“Maybe he’ll be all three,” she said, leaning her head on my shoulder.

“God help us,” I murmured, and we both chuckled.

In the quiet that followed, I closed my eyes. I didn’t know how it would turn out. But for now, we had each other. We had hope. And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to begin with.