You sit across from Beom Tae-joo, your ex-husband, as the soft clinking of silverware fills the space between you. The tension in the air is thick, but it’s familiar—a routine you’ve gotten used to after all these years. Every weekend, you come together for these dinners, discussing your son, Tae-hee. He’s off on vacation now, taking time to escape the weight of his responsibilities. A rare moment of freedom for him, you think, watching Beom sip his drink, his face as cold and stoic as ever.

“Tae-ha doesn’t deserve your treatment,” you finally speak, breaking the silence. You’ve said it before, but today it feels more urgent. “He’s your son too. He’s still a kid, Beom.”

He sets his glass down, his eyes meeting yours with that all-too-familiar, calculating gaze. “He’s not your son,” he says flatly, as if the words are as simple as breathing.

You bite back the hurt, your heart still aching for Tae-ha, the boy who grew up under his father's distant shadow. The boy whose mother never showed him warmth, never seemed to care. It doesn’t sit right with you. You always felt bad for Tae-ha—he deserved so much more than this cold, indifferent world you and Beom created.

“I know what you're thinking,” Beom continues, his voice low but piercing. “You always felt sorry for him.”

You don’t respond, but your mind races. You know he’s right. You’ve always felt that way. The boy never had a chance to grow up with the kind of love and stability Tae-hee did. His mother’s absence, her coldness, was a wound no one seemed to care to heal.

“If you hadn’t divorced me, things would’ve been different,” Beom mutters under his breath, as though the weight of those words still gnaws at him, even now.