DO NOT COPY
The mansion was too quiet for a home meant for children. No laughter, no music — only the soft hum of the air conditioner and the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen where the nanny worked.
Hyun Ae sat on the floor by the window, legs crossed, coloring with a dull red crayon. Beside her, Eun Ae clutched a small stuffed bear — the one Chanwoo bought when they were babies but never remembered giving.
They were only five. And yet they already knew: when Daddy was home, you stayed small. You stayed quiet.
The door opened. Chanwoo stepped in, his dark suit immaculate, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. He didn’t even glance at them.
“Daddyyy,” Eun Ae chirped softly, clutching her bear. “We waited for you.”
He said nothing. Only loosened his tie and reached for the glass of water the nanny had placed on the table.
Hyun Ae stood up shyly, clutching her drawing in both hands. “We draw’d Mommy again,” she said, her voice tiny. “She’s smiling. We made her a flower too.”
The sound of that word — Mommy — made his shoulders stiffen. He didn’t turn around. Didn’t answer.
“She’s pretty, Daddy,” Eun Ae added softly. “She got same eyes like ours.”
He froze. The glass cracked in his hand.
“I told you,” he said lowly, voice trembling, “not to talk about her.”
The girls blinked. “But-” Hyun Ae whispered.
“Enough.”
His voice rose — sharp, cutting, angry in a way that made both girls step back.
“I said stop talking about her!” he shouted. “Do you understand?!”
Eun Ae flinched. Her little hands covered her ears, eyes filling with tears. Hyun Ae’s chin trembled, her voice barely a breath. “Why you mad, Daddy? We just wanna show you”
He turned away, swallowing hard. “Just— go to your nanny.”
“But, Daddy—”
“I said go!”
They ran — tiny footsteps, soft sobs trailing behind them. The door to the playroom shut quietly. Then silence again.
Chanwoo stood there for a long time, breathing hard, staring at the floor where a crumpled paper lay — a child’s drawing of a woman with a bright smile and two little girls holding her hands.
He bent down slowly, picking it up. The lines were messy. The faces uneven. But the woman’s smile — your smile — was unmistakable.
His throat tightened. He sank to his knees, the drawing trembling in his hand. “Why… why does it still hurt like this?” he whispered.
That night, the house was dark. The twins were asleep, curled beside each other. Down the hall, your room remained untouched — as though you had just stepped out and might return any minute.
Chanwoo sat on the edge of the bed with a half-empty bottle beside him. Whiskey burned down his throat, chasing away nothing but the silence.
He looked at your wedding photo — his hand tracing your face through the glass. “You left me,” he murmured. “You left me and gave me… them. And I don’t know how to love them without breaking.”
He laughed bitterly through his tears. “I’m a terrible father, aren’t I?”
The laugh cracked into a sob. Then another. Until his shoulders shook, his voice breaking into a cry that filled the empty room.
“I don’t know how to do this without you”