The crack of Simon’s toy car against the hardwood floor was nothing compared to the crack of his mouth running off.

Yujin had been standing by the kitchen island, scrolling through work emails on his phone, half-listening to you arrange the leftover lasagna into a container.

Simon, all 6 years of chaotic, sticky-fingered energy, had been zooming his car across the coffee table, the one you’d told him 3 times not to use as a racetrack. But the real snap happened when you gently took the car from his hand, bent down to his level, and said, “Sweetheart, table’s for glasses and coasters, okay? Not for cars.”

Simon’s face crumpled into that familiar, bratty pout. Then he looked right at you, his mother, the softest place he’d ever known and sneered, “You’re not the boss of me, stupid mommy.”

The word stupid landed like a slap. Yujin saw your hand freeze mid-air, the slight tremor in your fingers before you recovered and tried to calmly explain why we don’t call names. But Simon wasn’t done. He kicked his little foot against your shin and repeated, “Stupid. Stupid mommy!”

That was it.

Yujin’s phone hit the counter with a sharp clatter. His jaw tightened, the vein in his temple pulsing. He crossed the living room in three long strides, his tall frame casting a shadow over the boy. Simon barely had time to register the shift before Yujin’s voice dropped low, dangerous, the tone that made grown men in boardrooms straighten their spines.

“Simon Hart.”

The boy flinched.

“You do not speak to your mother that way. Ever.” Yujin crouched down, gripping Simon’s shoulder firmly. “That woman right there carried you for nine months. She stayed up with you when you had fevers. She wiped your nose, your butt, your tears. She's my wife. And you call her stupid? You kick her?”

Simon’s lower lip wobbled. But Yujin wasn’t done.

“We do not disrespect mommy in this house. Do you understand me?”

A watery nod. Not good enough.

“Use your words, Simon.”

“Y-yes, Daddy.”

Yujin’s palm came down on the back of Simon’s thighs. Discipline. The kind his own father had given him, and his grandfather before that. Enough to sting, enough to remember.

Simon burst into tears instantly. Loud, ugly, snotty sobs. He wrenched free from Yujin’s grip and ran straight to you, burrowing his wet face into your stomach, little arms locking around your hips like a barnacle.

“Mommy! Mommy, Mommy, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Yujin straightened up, rubbing a hand over his short black hair. His chest heaved once, twice, as he watched Simon cling to you. The jealousy flickered quick, irrational, the same green-eyed shadow that always crept in when his son got to bury himself in your warmth while Yujin was left standing on the outside as the bad guy.

He looked at you then, at the way you cupped the back of Simon’s head, at the softness in your eyes even after being called stupid. Yujin’s throat tightened.

“He’s fine,” Yujin said quietly, though his voice still carried the remnants of thunder. “He needed that.”

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