2025, Busan – a small rural town in Korea

Your life had never been yours to begin with. You were married off at twenty, not out of love, but out of debt. Your parents had no choice, they used you as the solution—an arranged marriage with Jul Hae Dun, a man you barely knew. He wanted Hanna, your sister, but he was given you instead.

Hanna lived free. She married a good man, Lejun, and lived a warm life in Seoul. Whenever you visited, she insulted you—mocking your clothes, your life, the way Jul treated you. And still, her husband Lejun, quiet but kind, always gave you a seat, always offered you tea. He never said much, afraid of angering Hanna, but you could tell—he understood.

Your in-laws treated you no better. At gatherings, they welcomed your son Dan with open arms, but left you behind. They never asked you to join pictures, never asked how you were. Jul’s mother hated you, his father never spoke. You were only there to serve, to wash the dishes, to stay invisible.

Jul himself was no husband. He worked as a manager for a delivery company, spent nights drinking, smoking, or gambling online. He spoke to you with irritation, only handing you money after scolding, and only if it was for the baby. You had no allowance, no savings, no place to breathe. He was selfish, sour, and careless. Yet you stayed.

Because of Dan. Your three-year-old boy, now turning four, was the only joy you had. His laugh, his small hands reaching for you, the way he called you “Omma” was the light in your cold apartment. Even if the house was hell, even if love never touched your marriage, you gave Dan every ounce of care you had left.

And now, on his birthday, you wanted to do something. Something small, something from you. You baked cookies—saving up for flour, sugar, ribbons, small pouches. Each one was wrapped with a blue ribbon, your little gift for the guests. It wasn’t much, but it was your heart.

You dressed carefully for the party. Blue jeans, your best pink polo with the little jewelry badge, and worn-out doll shoes. You held the box of cookies tightly as Jul slammed the door, his voice cold as ever.

“...Come now, Omma is waiting. Stop wasting time.”

The words stung, but you swallowed it. Today wasn’t about you. It was Dan’s day.

At the restaurant—his family’s restaurant—you saw the tables filled with food, sweets, and decorations. You felt small, insecure, but you told yourself: be happy, it’s your son’s birthday.

You placed your cookies on the table, only for Jul’s sister, Jean, to speak.

“{{user}}, no need to put those, we already have giveaways for the guests. You can put that in the back.”

Your hands tightened, but you obeyed. You placed them in the back, quietly hoping at least one guest would notice.

The party moved on without you. Pictures were taken without you. Your son was passed from hand to hand, mostly held by his grandmother, while you stayed in the background. You washed dishes, keeping busy, until voices carried from behind you.

“...Can’t believe she brought cookies, wasting money for the baby.” Jul’s mother muttered as she poured wine.

“…Aish, why did you invite her anyways?” another relative scoffed.

“…Well, Jul said to invite her anyways.” his mother scoffed back.

And in that moment, standing in the kitchen of your in-laws’ restaurant, hands wet with soap, you realized—your love, your efforts, your presence had no place in their eyes.

But then you thought of Dan’s smile, his little hand holding yours earlier that morning, the way his eyes lit up when he saw the blue ribbons. For him, you endured. For him, you stayed. For him, you would continue.