Chapter 25: Wounds and Comfort

The air around Mother crackled with unextinguished anger. She gritted her teeth, replying in a low voice.

“Your father’s been like this forever. Even before we married.”

Her familiarity with this chaos was chilling. But in her eyes, I saw shattered fragments of her pride. Pretending to accept this as normal was already abnormal. Wounds from people never dull—you just think they do. Her eerie calm made my voice tremble.

“…Still.”

“He won’t change. But he should at least respect me.”

Her breath hitched briefly. She exhaled, continuing.

“I won’t tolerate him dragging his outside messes into this house.”

Her piercing gaze sliced toward Do Yoon, standing far off. Like a broken robot, I followed her stare. Do Yoon’s face was ashen, her silent glare whipping him mercilessly. I shut my eyes tight, then opened them.

“Go rest. I’ll handle this.”

Suddenly, she grabbed my hand tightly. Her lips, bitten raw, bled as she looked up at me.

“Seung Hyun, you’re all I have. You know that, right?”

I froze. The old Seung Hyun would’ve shaken her off coldly. But after this scene, I couldn’t. Her face looked so desperately lonely. I looked away.

“…Noona would be upset to hear that.”

“Seung Hee’s no good! Does Grandfather care about her at all? If you succeed, she’ll be fine too.”

Her eyes shimmered with years of suppressed pain and rage, molten and sticky. Fear crept in. What I’d seen was just a sliver of her lifelong suffering.

I couldn’t imagine surviving between a chronically unfaithful husband and a father-in-law obsessed with his grandson. Even knowing her secrets, I couldn’t say, “You’re both wrong.” My head spun.

This wasn’t in the novel.

In Romantic Cinderella, with Ji An as the protagonist, Shin Mi Sun was just a one-dimensional, cruel mother-in-law. For a moment, the reader Park Seung Hyun and the son Choi Seung Hyun blurred together. Shaking off dizziness, I managed.

“Rest. I’ll take you to your room.”

I supported her to her room, laid her down, and brought ice water, ensuring she drank it all. Returning with the empty glass, I saw no one in the first floor except bustling staff. I stared at the wall where Do Yoon had hidden, my heart heavy as stone.

Back on the second floor, I lingered outside Do Yoon’s room, unsure if I should enter. His pride might mean he needed space. But his terrified expression from our brief eye contact haunted me.

I knocked lightly.

“Can I come in?”

No answer. The door was slightly ajar, so I decided to intrude.

Do Yoon’s room was usually bright, lit late for studying. But now, just past evening, it was pitch black, curtains drawn, him lying on his bed, back turned.

Anyone could tell he wasn’t asleep. I approached cautiously.

“Sorry if I’m disturbing you.”

No response, even though he must’ve heard me. I stared at his back, at a loss for words. I settled on what I wanted to say.

“Don’t take Mother’s words to heart.”

He didn’t even breathe audibly. I looked down, adding.

“It’s not your fault.”

Still nothing. I sighed deeply. Maybe he needed time alone. His posture screamed “leave me be.” You can’t talk to someone turned away.

As I moved to go, his voice pierced from behind.

“…Haewon Gallery paintings are expensive, right?”

Startled, I turned. He was still buried in his blanket, unmoving. I answered, standing awkwardly.

“Yeah… they are.”

The artworks there start in the hundreds of millions—often used by the rich for investments or tax evasion, rivaling apartment prices. He spoke again.

“Mother said it was all Father’s money. Is that true? Couldn’t that woman just be rich?”

His absurd question puzzled me. I pulled a chair to his bedside, confused why he’d ask this. He continued, back still turned, speaking sporadically.

“Calling her a bar girl… maybe Mother just said that out of anger.”

“Maybe…”

We wouldn’t know without investigating. But Mother’s reaction to the mistress’s name suggested she knew plenty. Unsure of his point, I stayed silent.

He fell quiet again. I called softly.

“Do Yoon? You okay?”

“If Mother’s right, and Father gave her that money, why didn’t he give my mom anything? She struggled so much…”

His voice trembled with confusion, his back shaking faintly.

I felt like I’d been hit with a hammer. Amid that chaos, Do Yoon wasn’t thinking of himself but his birth mother.

Abandoned by President Choi, Do Yoon’s mother received no support, living in hardship until her death. Betrayed, her mental state crumbled, forcing Do Yoon to scrape by with his grandmother on welfare until sixteen. Even his grandmother passed soon after.

“…Sorry, I shouldn’t say this to you. In your eyes, me and that woman are no different, right?”

“Do Yoon, hold on. Look at me.”

“I’m not as good as you think. I don’t think it’s my fault at all! Isn’t that true?”

His breathing quickened, muffled by the blanket. Without thinking, I leaned forward, reaching out, and hugged the bundled figure tightly. A low hum came from within.

“If Father really gave her that money, why did he abandon my mom? I don’t care about paintings. But if she’s raising his kid, shouldn’t he at least send living expenses? My mom only had him… she didn’t even know he was married…”

A glimpse of his profile showed through the blanket. He was fighting back tears, face red, eyes bloodshot, tears streaming down his nose. He rambled.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t tell you this. But I couldn’t hold it in. I hate it, it’s unfair… it’s suffocating…”

I climbed onto the bed, pulling him close, hugging him tightly. Stroking his head and back through the blanket, I said.

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault. It’s natural.”

Even I wanted to punch Father for his shamelessness earlier. Why do the people around the wrongdoer suffer?

Why couldn’t Shin Mi Sun let go of the reckless Seung Hyun? Why was Seung Hyun so anxious despite having everything? Why did Seung Hee, unaware of her own origins, side with Do Yoon over her brother? Everything I thought I knew shifted perspective. Do Yoon’s faint voice continued.

“I knew coming into this house I’d be hated by Mother, you, and noona. That’s just how it is.”

I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he was crying. A grown boy sobbed silently in my arms.

“…But earlier, when our eyes met, I was so scared you’d hate me again.”