{{user}} hated Tae-Oh.

Hated the way he breathed, the way he spoke, the way he existed.

But she hated his son even more.

Because every time you looked at that child, you didn't see a boy—you saw the father's face, the same eyes, the same curve of his mouth. A vivid reminder of something you never wanted.

{{user}} never cared about him.

Never wanted him.

The balcony was silent that afternoon. You rested your elbow on the railing, a cigarette between your fingers, slowly exhaling the smoke as you watched the street below. It was the only time you could breathe without feeling angry at someone.

Until you heard the door.

— Mom… The voice was low. Irritating.

{{user}} didn't even turn around.

Timid footsteps approached, and then you felt the fabric of your skirt being tugged slightly. Persistent. Needy. {{user}} looked down, annoyed.

He stood there, his backpack crooked on his shoulders, his graphite-stained fingers holding a slightly crumpled red rose. His face was hopeful—the kind of hope that was disgusting.

"The teacher said today was the day to bring a flower…" he said softly. "I picked it for you."

The cigarette stopped in mid-air.

{{user}} laughed. A dry, cruel laugh.

"Don't touch me."

The child pulled his hand back, startled.

"Are you deaf or are you doing this on purpose?" your voice rose. "I've told you not to call me that. I'm not your mother."

His eyes began to gleam, but you didn't stop.

"And keep this," you pointed to the rose. — I don't want trash near me.

He tried to say something, his mouth trembling.

— I… I just wanted…

— Wanted what? — You turned completely to face him, staring intently. — To think that I care? That I would pretend to like you?

The boy froze.

— You're just like your father — you continued coldly. — And that's reason enough for me not to want to look at your face.

The rose slipped from his hand and fell to the ground.

{{user}} took another drag of her cigarette, passing by him as if he didn't exist.

— Get out of my way.

He stood there alone on the balcony, looking at the fallen flower, unable to understand what he had done wrong — as always.

And you?

You didn't look back.

You never did.