Chapter Text
Uju doesn't know when the video calls started. They were a norm for as long as he could remember. It came almost every night and was as much of a routine as his warm milk, bedtime story and goodnight kisses.
He grew to picture his mother's face on a tiny screen: eyes that always looked at him kindly, a controlled, tight-lipped smile that slipped when appa said something funny. She furrowed her brows in concentration when she strained to listen, and she liked to twirl her hair when spoke. She would teach Uju new phrases that he liked repeating day after day- a rare connection with his mother. When Uju was older, she would share German words that rolled strangely in his tongue. It was then that Uju learnt how different of a world his mother lived from him.
When Uju turned 4, he realised that appa was his favourite person ever. It wasn't a difficult choice, his mother was but a person in a phone. He thought about appa when he was happy, and missed appa when he was sad. Playing with friends made him want to play with his appa, playing alone made him feel lonely, which made him miss his appa. He wanted to let appa try all the foods he ate in school, and show him all the things he did while he away.
Appa often said "I love you". Uju always responded in kind, but he never quite understood what it meant. But he kind of had an idea now.
—
Sometimes, when Ikjun was alone, he would let himself go. He would let the self-pity, sadness and exhaustion engulf him. He would melt into his chair and wish, just for a little while, to disappear. He wanted nothing to do with this world, all the pain and tears in brought. It gave him only heartache in return.
His divorce was surprisingly quick. Their marriage ended so easily, it was laughable. All the memories they once had suddenly felt different. He would see his wife- no, his ex-wife- when he looked at Uju. He would think of her when entered the house, the master bedroom. Granted, she didn't spend too much time here, not even enough to call it home. But Ikjun still thought of her. Constantly.
At some point, it had stopped being love. But he still held on. Maybe it was the guilt and the what ifs, the many possibilities their lives could have had together. He was willing to uproot his life in Korea for her, but clearly, that was not enough. She wanted more. Much more that he couldn't give.
The wedding photograph above his bed was taken down right after the divorce. He didn't know where to put it. He left it on the floor, right against the wall. He thought maybe if he left it long enough, it would just vanish, and he would never have to deal with it.
Some days, when he wasn't consumed by tiredness, he would be up wondering what he did wrong. He gave everything he could to the relationship, their marriage. He wasn't sure what hurt more: the cheating or the complete lack of effort to save the marriage.
Maybe the marriage meant more to him than it did to her. Certainly, their relationship was worth nothing more than scraps now- a past gone by.
On the nights he stayed up, he wondered into the living room and stared out the windows. Dark and silent, empty and grey; the night reflected his loneliness, awake and alone he wanted nothing more than to wash away his pain. He never turned on the TV for fear of waking up his son, never looked at his phone for all the news-good and bad- that it gave. He just stared into darkness and willed misery to go away.
Once, Uju found him asleep on the couch, arms crossed and glasses still on. He had woken Ikjun with a giggle, prodding his arm and then his leg.
"Appa didn't sleep?" He had asked at Ikjun's third yawn, eyes wide with quiet admonishment over breakfast.
"Of course I did," came the petulant reply. "I'm just a little tired."
Ikjun draped an arm across the back of his chair and leaned back with an exaggerated yawn. From across the table came Uju's little giggle that made him feel infinitely better.
Ikjun could keep up with this lie forever.
—
When Uju turned five, he noticed how unusual it was to not have omma home most days. He saw something strange in his teacher's eyes when he informed her that "omma is always out." He saw the weird smile of a neighbour when appa said "My wife is still in Germany" with a laugh. He noticed how his friends had their mothers pick them up at school with warm hugs while he greeted his nanny with a smile. He ignored the sympathetic eyes in his direction- the same one appa got when he mentioned how his wife was away. Uju didn't know what so unusual about it. It was the only normal he knew.
When omma visited on children's day, she brought many presents. Uju stayed in her arms for a good hour after her return, regaling tales of his school life, friends and of course, his new girlfriend. Omma hummed and nodded, laughing at all the right moments and stroking his hair. He relaxed into her touch, pleased to finally have an omma-hug of his own after all this time. He took in her smell- it reminded him of the cold air and rainy nights. It smelled nothing like appa: The soft scent of pine after a shower and leftover wafts of disinfectant was always comforting. Resting his head on her shoulder, Uju suddenly found himself missing his appa.
—
"Omma and appa won't be together anymore," Ikjun explained, watching carefully for any change in Uju's expression.
Looking up at Ikjun with wide eyes, Uju seemed immensely confused. "But you're never together. Omma is always out. You are always here,"
That stung. Despite the innocence of Uju's words, they felt like a slap in the face. Ikjun took a moment to find his bearings again.
"We used to live apart because of work. We were still married then. We aren't anymore. Now, we won't be living together because we aren't married anymore."
The word "married" felt heavy on his tongue. It left a terrible taste in his mouth and made him feel a weight in his stomach. It all felt so unreal.
"We got a divorce, Uju."
Ikjun felt like his tainted his son's childhood with that statement. It took days before Uju understood.
—
Iksun was a great help after the divorce. it wasn't much of a transition to be honest, it barely put a dent in his day-to-day life. The divorce only made the separation official, Ikjun thought idly. At least it wouldn't be difficult for Uju to get used to.
But Ikjun felt a little differently. It left him with more baggage than he wanted, more than he had expected when he penned his signature on the paper. The house was one they had chosen together. It brought back all the buried memories he didn't want to recall.
He was ashamed to admit that on more than one occasion, he had escaped, leaving Iksun and Uju behind in the apartment with the excuse of grocery shopping.
He would let his shopping drag on. He had been to the supermarket enough times to know where everything was, yet he let himself wonder around, scouring the shelves like a lost child on his first errand. Maybe he was lost, just in a different way.
He dropped some of Uju's favourite snacks into the basket and hovered around the alcohol section before sneaking a can of beer to the counter. It felt shameful and pathetic, but he wanted to drink in the cover of darkness, away from prying eyes and expectant smiles.
Just for a moment, he didn't want to be Lee Ikjun.
—
It took him so long to admit. It took him far longer to realise it; that he was leaning onto Songhwa for support, tailing her like a puppy in distress, desperately hoping for comfort when she smiled his way.
It started with casual visits to her office, simply out of boredom. Then it became meals together, ones without the others. He came to heavily rely on that, for that to light up his day when things were glum and to whisk his problems away, however temporary.
His steps felt lighter around her, his responsibilities and burdens forgotten. He liked watching her laugh at his jokes and craved their times together when apart.
Later, he realised that was love.
He was relearning love.
It was eye opening.
—