Work Text:
"Take it away. I don't want to see it."
The midwife pauses in her tracks, startled and confused. "But ma'am, you have to hold the baby on your chest. Skin-to-skin contact is—"
"Did you not hear me?" Su Mi snaps, her voice trembling with pain and something deeper, still out of breath from the strain her body has just gone through. "I said take it away!"
The midwife falters, looking down at the wailing newborn. Then, without another word, she hands the child to her assistant and wraps it in a cloth. They carry on with their duties while someone quietly slips out of the room.
Out on the balcony, Su Mi's mother stands with shaking hands, the cold air biting against her skin. She has stepped out to call her husband, but the baby's cries follow her—loud and raw. She turns just as the door opens.
"Give it to me," she says.
The assistant looks at her in surprise, then hands over the bundle. Carefully, she cradles the infant, studying her tiny face.
"It's a girl, right?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Leave us."
The assistant nods and slips away. Alone now, she rocks the baby gently. Back and forth. Back and forth. The cries begin to quiet.
She stares at her.
She should not be holding this child. This child is not supposed to exist.
She and her husband had raised their only daughter, Su Mi, to chase perfection. And she had never once disappointed them. Brilliant, competitive, and talented, she had always been top of her class, always first in competitions. She met their expectations and was their pride and joy.
Until, for the first time in her life, she made a mistake.
Their daughter came to them one night, eyes dark with fear yet glistening with determination, and told them she was pregnant.
Her hands had flown to her mouth in shock.
The words shattered everything.
"What?!" her husband had bellowed, standing abruptly. "What did you say?!"
"Yeobo," she had said, placing a hand on his arm.
Their daughter had stood tall despite her trembling hands. Looking directly into her father's eyes, she said, "I'm pregnant. And I'm giving birth to the baby."
Her husband, who had never once raised a hand to their daughter, slapped her.
"Have you lost your mind?!"
"Yeobo!" she cried, pulling him back.
Su Mi's head had turned to the side, tears welling but unshed. She bit her lip, turned her head, and looked her father in the eye again.
"You! What have you been doing all this time?! I thought you were studying, and you were—you were going around sleeping with boys?! Now you're going to ruin your future over a child?! Who is the father?!"
"I will only give birth to it. I'm not going to keep it."
"And what will happen when the world finds out you had a child out of wedlock?!"
"That won't happen. It will disappear with its father."
"You won't even tell us who he is?!"
Su Mi looked away. "What's the point? You won't like him. It doesn't matter."
They both knew. The farmer's boy. The one they had warned her about.
Her husband had shaken his head. "You're a disappointment."
With that, he had turned and left.
In the months that followed, Su Mi changed drastically.
As a mother, what frightens her most isn't what Su Mi had done—it's what Su Mi is willing to give up. Her daughter is closing herself off, becoming cold, hard. Her warmth is retreating into shadows.
Yet, she can do nothing.
She never sees the baby in her arms as a child, as her granddaughter, but as a threat—to her own child's career, her future, her legacy. Su Mi has a bright future. She cannot sit by and watch it be thrown away.
She knows what has to be done.
But as she looks down at the baby in her arms, as she thinks about her own daughter, she cannot help but waver.
In the days that follow, Su Mi never leaves her room. She will not hold the child. Will not look at her. The maids and the head housekeeper tend to the baby. But Su Mi's mother lingers. She, though she never holds or feeds the child, is always nearby. She never allows herself to linger long, but from time to time, she stands quietly at a distance.
The night they are to take the baby away, she stands outside Su Mi's door. She knocks. Enters.
Su Mi is reading on her bed, books scattered around her.
"They are leaving."
No response.
"Are you sure you're not going to come?"
Su Mi keeps reading. "Why would I?"
"Are you really not going to take a look at her?"
Silence.
She sighs and leaves the room.
Downstairs, the car waits. The head housekeeper stands with the baby.
She looks at the child, then at the housekeeper.
The housekeeper meets her gaze questioningly. A nod. The car door opens.
"Wait," she says suddenly. She walks forward. "I'm going."
The car drives past the grand fountain and out the towering gates.
In the rearview mirror, she catches sight of a lonely figure silhouetted in the balcony light, arms wrapped tightly around herself, watching the car drive away.
Decades pass. Su Mi rises in the world. She builds a life, a family, a legacy. She becomes everything they had always wanted her to be.
Yet.
Her phone lights up one evening.
Mom
I found her.
There it is.
No matter how much Su Mi has gained, how carefully she has carved away the past, and how ruthlessly she has buried it, her mother has always known—
A fragment of her has never stopped circling back to that part of her life.
Su Mi, proud and distant, has never truly let go of the child she gave up.
"I'm home."
His wife flinches in her seat. She snaps her laptop halfway shut and rolls her chair back, turning to face him with a too-quick smile.
"Oh, yeobo. You're home."
"What were you working on?" he asks, shrugging off his coat, eyes on her.
"Ah, just work," she says lightly, gaze skimming past him. She stands. Smiles again. "You haven't eaten yet, right? Want me to heat something up for you?"
He nods, unbuttoning his cuffs as he moves into the walk-in closet. "No, I haven't."
She lingers at the doorway, hands resting lightly on the frame. "I'll take care of it."
"Thank you," he says simply.
She smiles, then disappears down the hallway.
As he loosens his tie, something catches his eye. A brown envelope lies slightly ajar on the floor near her side of the closet. Curious, he bends to pick it up and pulls out the paper inside.
A legal statement.
Hanbada Law Firm.
His brows furrow.
Hanbada?
His eyes drop to the attorney's name.
Woo Young Woo.
He lets out a quiet breath, eyes lingering on the characters. The name is unique. Whether read forward or backward, it still reads the same.
He slides the paper back in, carries it to her desk, figuring it's just work. As he places it down, his hand brushes against the mouse, accidentally waking the laptop. The screen lights up.
He doesn't know what compels him to open it fully. But he does.
An article is pulled up.
The First Autistic Attorney of South Korea, the headline reads.
His gaze skims past the headline, stopping at the name: Woo Young Woo.
His eyes drop to the picture, and something in him comes to a halt.
He'd heard rumors. A long time ago. Before the marriage. That Tae Su Mi had a child with a senior she was dating during university.
He had never believed it, thinking it was just a petty rumor being spread around.
But after they married, after they had Sang Hyeon, he started noticing things.
When they went out. When they were around other families. At parks. At malls. At Sang Hyeon's school family day. Su Mi's eyes often lingered, just a second too long, on the daughters. On the little girls. Then she would affectionately tend to their son—brushing her hand through Sang Hyeon's hair, kissing his temple, pulling him close—and move on.
There had always been something in those quiet moments that he couldn't quite put his finger on.
Until now.
The door creaks open behind him.
"Yeo—what are you doing?"
Her voice cuts through the room like a blade. Taut. Sharp.
He turns.
Her eyes are piercing. Watching him.
"I found this envelope on the floor," he says, voice low. "I thought it was work, so I put it on your desk. I bumped the mouse. The screen turned on. I didn't mean to…"
He drifts off, not knowing what to say.
She holds his gaze for a long second, then walks in without a word. Closes the door behind her. Crosses the room. Shuts the laptop with a firm click. Collects her papers like nothing happened.
"Thank you," she says simply. Her voice calm. "For putting it on my desk."
He moves aside, watching her.
"That Woo Young Woo..." he starts, testing her. "She's… interesting. An autistic attorney? I don't think I've ever seen one."
No reaction. "She's kind of a genius."
He stares at her. Hesitating. But then:
"You know… she looks a bit like you."
There. A pause.
A stillness.
"She doesn't," she says quietly. Firmly.
Then she goes back to arranging her papers.
"Dinner is ready," she adds. "Go on ahead. I'll come down in a minute."
He opens his mouth. He wants to say more. Ask more. But he knows his limitations.
Even after all these years, there are corners of each other they'd never been allowed to touch.
He steps back. "Okay."
He walks to the door. But before he closes it, he looks back through the small crack.
She isn't moving.
Her hand rests on the desk, fingers curled over the edge. Her eyes are lowered, distant, staring into something far beyond the papers. The lamp's soft glow lights her face, casting shadows that make her look older. Worn. Lost.
He closes the door.
When he first met Tae Su Mi, she had seemed untouchable. Charismatic. Fierce. Confident. Brilliant. Sharp. She was the kind of woman his parents had wanted for him. Someone who would stand beside him in power, not behind him in shadow.
In nearly twenty years of marriage, he had never seen her falter.
Not when they argued. Not when she was tired. Not when she was dealing with difficult clients. Not in court. Not when she was speaking in a room full of people.
Until now.
Gwang Ho never thinks he'll see Tae Su Mi again.
And he doesn't expect her to come looking for him.
He's imagined it before—just a handful of times, late at night, when the weight of everything becomes too much and the loneliness creeps under his skin. But it's always a fleeting thing. A foolish what if that he never lets himself linger on.
Because in his head, when she comes back, it means something.
But it doesn't.
Tae Su Mi walks back into his life the same way she walked out of it—cold, deliberate, and utterly indifferent. She stands in the doorway of his cramped shop, pristine in her tailored suit, like the years haven't touched her.
And when she finally speaks—after twenty-seven years of silence—it isn't to ask how they've been. How they managed.
It's to tell him to disappear. Again. To take his daughter and vanish, like they're nothing more than a smudge on the polished glass of her life.
She doesn't ask anything, like she's never once wondered about them in all those years.
It's not like he expects her to. But still. It stings when she doesn't. When she skips right to the accusations, like anything else never mattered.
Tae Su Mi has always known how to wound with words—how to find the softest places and make them bleed.
And now he wonders—does she actually believe the things she says?
Does she really think that's all he's after? Revenge. Money.
He's never once cared about those things.
Not even when he was scraping by, day after day, trying to put food on the table.
Sure, part of him resents her—the part that aches at the sight of her in the papers, happy and content beside her husband and son. The part that still wonders how she let go so easily, so quickly. The part that's been quietly bleeding since the day she walked away.
But still. Even through the pain, even after accusing her of selfishness—he never truly condemned her. Not for her silence. Not for her distance. Not for the life she chose.
Because he understood. He really did.
He understood why she rejected his proposal. Why she turned her back on him.
He told himself, back then, that love would be enough.
But who in their right mind trades a promising future for a life with a man who has nothing?
Who gives up a thirty-million-dollar ring—the one the tabloids said she wore—for a carved wooden band tucked now into the farthest, darkest corner of a cabinet?
His mind drifts back to that night—the night he last saw her. The night he knelt in front of her, in the rain, begging her to have their child.
He doesn't regret it. How could he?
Young Woo is the best thing that ever happened to him.
But maybe…
Maybe he shouldn't have asked her.
Maybe he shouldn't have begged her to go through something painful and dangerous just so he could have a child he wasn't ready for either.
At the time, it felt right. Like love. Like courage.
He couldn't let an innocent life pay for their mistake.
He couldn't bear the thought of Su Mi aborting the child—the life they created together—even if, deep down, he knew it wasn't really his choice to make.
But now, after all this time, all he feels is guilt.
Guilt for her.
Guilt for their daughter.
He remembers the look in her eyes when she told him she was pregnant. The way her voice was low, determined, when she said she wouldn’t keep it.
But there was something shaky behind that determination—something he couldn't name back then.
His spiraling thoughts slow to a quiet stop. Next to the empty soju bottles, his eyes land on the glossy brochure he should've thrown away by now, but hasn't. He sees it all again: the moment she stepped into his shop. The way she lifted his chin when their eyes met. And how her gaze drifted briefly to the left. To the wall where the photos hang. Before she caught herself.
Tae Su Mi isn't the kind of person who does things just because someone asks her. She isn't easily swayed. Especially not when she's set her mind to something.
She moves through the world with calculation. Always weighing gain against loss. Everything she does has a purpose.
But this, keeping the baby, there was no advantage in it. If anything, it threatened everything she was working toward.
He used to tell himself it was guilt. That she kept Young Woo to ease her conscience.
But.
Maybe, just maybe, she also wanted to.
She knew exactly what it would cost her. She had every right and reason to walk away from this responsibility.
And yet, she chose not to.
Because maybe when he promised to raise it, to take responsibility, she saw a way forward.
A way to keep the child she couldn't have—not in the life she chose.
And maybe letting her be born, knowing he would do the rest, was the only thing she could do.
Not for him.
Not even for herself.
But for Young Woo.
And maybe that was love, too.
His mother has been acting weird lately.
She used to be composed. Too composed. Almost mechanical in how precise her routine was—always the first to wake up, always perfectly dressed, makeup flawless, speech eloquent. Controlled. Unshakable.
But lately… she flinches more easily. Startles at the smallest sounds. Especially when he knocks. Even more when he doesn't. The soft click of her laptop shutting has become a routine of its own, a quiet little reflex every time he walks in. Her shoulders stiffen, her smile snaps on a beat later. Too late. Too fake.
At first, he thinks it's stress. Work stuff, probably. Or something confidential. Something to do with the candidacy, maybe. But then one night, she comes home different. Tense. Distracted. It sticks with him. Like an itch at the back of his skull he can't scratch. Until he can't ignore it anymore.
Sang Hyeon doesn't want to invade her privacy. He really doesn't. But he's worried. Something about it doesn't feel like just curiosity. It feels like instinct. Like something is wrong.
He stares at his laptop for nearly an hour before he makes up his mind.
He hacks into her computer.
He tells himself he'll stop as soon as he sees it's nothing. Just to make sure she's okay.
But it isn't nothing.
Search after search. Morning. Night. Even during working hours.
Woo Young Woo.
Woo Young Woo middle school. Woo Young Woo high school. Woo Young Woo SNU. Hanbada Attorney Woo Young Woo. First Autistic Attorney. Woo Young Woo interview. Woo Young Woo graduation speech. Woo Young Woo gimbap store.
All of it. That name. Over and over again.
His brows furrow.
He clicks a link. A photo pops up.
A girl.
A young woman who looks… like his mother.
He blinks. His heart skips a beat. His mind starts racing.
Before he can stop himself, he hacks into her phone.
And there it is—in the texts between his mother and grandmother.
Woo Young Woo is his mother's daughter.
He sits on the edge of his bed, phone still glowing in his hand with messages he isn't supposed to see.
He doesn't know what to feel. He isn't angry. Or sad. He just feels… He's never even considered the rumors. His mom has never shown a hint of anything like this. So now, staring at the massive truth she buried, he doesn't know what to do.
He feels… conflicted.
After that, he starts watching her more closely. Looking for signs. Anything. He feels ridiculous—of course she wouldn't show anything. She never does. But still. Something in him has shifted. A part of him can't help but feel betrayed.
He thought he knew everything about her.
He doesn't.
He doesn't dwell too deep, but the questions come anyway. Why had she abandoned his sister? Why hadn't she told him? Did his father know?
Some answers feel obvious.
But others, not so much.
Like—how does she feel?
Why had she done it?
Despite what he's learned about her past, his perception of her hasn't changed.
His mother has always been good to him. Always made time for him. Never missed an award ceremony, a competition, a school event. She never pressured him about school. She just wants him to be kind. To follow his heart. To be a good person. She teaches him right from wrong. And she corrects him when he does wrong.
She's a good mother. And a good person.
But this time, she isn't.
She has the audacity to bring up how she never pressured him. How all she's ever wanted was for him to be good. Yet the moment he tries to be, she shuts him down.
Because it clashes with the one thing she can't risk.
Herself.
Her name. Her image. Her ambitions.
That's what hurts.
That's why he snaps.
"What about you, Mom?" he asks sharply. "Have you always been good your whole life?"
She reels. Incredulous. "What?!"
"Woo Young Woo!" he shouts, breathing ragged. "You think I don't know?"
For the first time in his life, Tae Su Mi—his mother, the woman who always has a retort, always has answers, always stands ten steps ahead—is at a loss for words. Looking caught. Cornered. Off balance.
She doesn't address it. Just says they'll talk later and walks away.
That day, he comes face to face with that unfamiliar side of her.
Undeterred, he looks for another way.
He goes to the one person beyond his mother's control—his estranged older sister. One of the attorneys on the case. He doesn't know what he's hoping for exactly. Only that she might understand. And somehow, he already knows she will.
His mother finds out later. And her solution isn't to listen—it's to ship him off. Abroad. Quietly. Permanently.
At the airport, he texts his noona. Tells her everything. A few minutes later, his phone buzzes.
Choi Sang Hyeon, do not worry. I will try to convince Attorney Tae Su Mi on your behalf.
Beside him stands a maid. Bodyguards. All disguised as protection, but there to make sure he doesn't run. His heart thuds in his ears. His palms are slick with sweat as the flight announcements roll overhead.
Then the guards tell him they're heading back.
Not long after, he sits in the witness stand. Confessing everything. Hoping his voice doesn't shake too much. He glances toward In Cheol hyung, trying to show I'm sorry, and sees understanding there.
Then his gaze drifts.
Past him.
To his mom.
He sees his mother looking…
No. Not at him.
At his noona.
In all seventeen years of his life, Sang Hyeon has seen his mother wear different expressions. But never that one.
She's still composed. Still unreadable. But there's something quieter beneath it. Something in her glassy eyes and tight lips. Something fragile, trembling just beneath the surface.
That question comes back to him again.
How does his mother feel?
He thinks he knows now.
He doesn't know what Young Woo said to her. What had been shared between them behind closed doors. What had made her back down, let him go, let him speak.
But whatever it was… she hasn't made that choice for him alone.
She showed up for the girl standing across from her too.