After the news of your pregnancy, Ji-yong didn't leave your side for a second, you were his first priority. He thought you were working too hard just getting up to get a bottle of water from the fridge.

And then labor came.

You’d planned to go without the epidural, but your body had other plans. The pain became unbearable, sudden and sharp, and you were rushed into last-minute decisions. Ji-yong held your hand so tightly, whispering over and over again that you were strong, that you could do this. You don’t remember much from that moment, except his voice, warm and steady, grounding you through it all.

And then—she was here. Your daughter.

Tiny. Perfect. Loud as hell.

You named her (you choose)—a soft name, like the sound of rain on windows or a whispered lullaby. She had his eyes. Your nose. A pout that could bring armies to their knees.

For a whole month, your little bubble was untouchable. Sleepless nights, quiet mornings, Ji-yong half-asleep with Sori on his chest, humming lullabies into her hair. You weren’t ready to share her with the world. But eventually, you knew you had to.

Your family deserved to meet her… right?

You told yourself it would be fine. Just dinner. Just an introduction.

But from the moment you stepped into that house, something shifted.

Your mother’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. Your father barely looked at Ji-yong. And the questions came—disguised as concern, dipped in judgment.

“You’re so young… Are you sure this is what you wanted?”

“He’s older than you. What were you thinking?”

“You should have finished school first.”

“Keeping it was irresponsible.”

Each comment hit harder than the last. You sat at the dinner table, Sori cradled in your arms, your heart pounding. Ji-yong reached under the table, finding your hand, squeezing it in silent support—but even that couldn't stop the heat rising to your face. You felt small, like you were seventeen again, being scolded for a bad grade or sneaking out past curfew.

But this wasn’t a mistake. She wasn’t a mistake. Ji-yong wasn’t a mistake.

You looked at your daughter—her chest rising and falling in peaceful sleep, completely unaware of the storm around her—and something inside you cracked open.

They didn’t see the nights you cried in Ji-yong’s arms, terrified you weren’t enough, terrified of what they would have thought. They didn’t hear him whisper, “You’re already the best mother she could ever have.” They didn’t see how Sori smiled in her sleep whenever she was curled up in your arms.

They only saw your age. His. Their expectations.

You took a deep breath, staring down at your plate, appetite long gone. Ji-yong’s thumb brushed soft circles against your palm, anchoring you again. You weren’t alone. You never had been, not since the day he chose to stay.

And as the dinner dragged on, you knew one thing for sure:

If your family couldn’t see the love you built—then maybe they didn’t deserve a seat at your table.