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Belly was standing in front of the lower cabinets, practically halfway inside the dark cavern of pots and pans, her voice muffled by the stainless-steel cookware.
“Conrad, have you seen the clay pot?”
Out in the living room, Conrad froze. He was holding a TV remote, his thumb hovering over the volume button. He didn’t look back at the kitchen. He didn’t dare.
“No,” he said. His voice was a little too flat, a little too fast.
Belly backed out of the cabinet, hair disheveled, a look of rising panic on her face. “Jamie? What about you? Have you seen it?”
Thirteen-year-old Jamie, sitting on the opposite end of the couch, looked up from his phone. His eyes went wide, reflecting the light of his screen, before he quickly blinked it away. “No, mom.”
Conrad and Jamie slowly turned their heads toward each other.
They knew exactly where the clay pot is. Or rather, they knew where the sixty-two distinct ceramic shards that used to be the clay pot was.
To understand the sheer magnitude of the panic currently vibrating through the living room, one had to understand what had happened exactly seven days ago.
Laurel, the matriarch of family traditions decided that the family needed to embrace "cultural Wednesdays," which meant Conrad and Jamie were assigned dish duty after a massive feast of galbi-jjim and kimchi jjigae. The jjigae had been served in a beautiful, heavy, authentic Korean clay pot; a ddukbaegi; that Belly had painstakingly seasoned and cherished like a third child.
The dishwashing had started out fine. But then, as what always happens when a father tries to act "cool" and a son going through puberty refuses to cooperate, things, well… you know what happens.
"You're missing a spot on the bowls, kiddo," Conrad had said, nudging Jamie out of the way with his hip. "You gotta use elbow grease. You're just moving the grease around."
"I am using elbow grease, Dad," Jamie had hissed, flicking a sudsy bubble at Conrad’s forehead. "Your vision is just fading with age."
"Ohhh, age jokes, huh?" Conrad grabbed a wet sponge. "Let's see how your reflexes are holding up."
He launched the sponge. It hit Jamie square in the chest. In a blind reflex of self-defense, Jamie grabbed the nearest object on the counter to shield himself.
That object was the wet, soapy, incredibly slippery clay pot.
The pot practically launched itself like a wet bar of soap. It hovered in the air for a glorious, terrifying second of slow motion before coming into contact with the floor.
CRASH
They both froze, looking down at the shattered remains.
“Shit,” Conrad whispered.
“Shit,” Jamie echoed.
“Stop saying bad words,” Conrad snapped, his parental instincts firing a second too late.
“No, you stop saying bad words,” Jamie shot back, his hands over his mouth.
They both looked back down at the shattered clay pot, glistening with leftover kimchi broth and dish soap.
Simultaneously, they breathed, “Shit.”
In a frantic panic, father and son had swept up the evidence, stuffed it into three layers of grocery bags, and shoved it into the bottom of the outside trash can under a heavy layer of lawn clippings, and swore to never, ever speak of it again. They even shook hands, like a blood pact.
"This is a disaster," Belly lamented, her voice echoing from the kitchen as she slammed a cabinet door shut. "A literal disaster. Mom specifically said we have to have Korean food tonight because it’s Ines’s field day tomorrow!”
"Can't we just... use a normal metal pot?" Jamie called out weakly, casting a desperate glance at his dad.
Belly emerged from the kitchen, a wooden spoon held aloft. “No! She says the pot will help retain the nutrients we need for tomorrow! Your Dad is playing basketball, for Christ’s sake! And do you want me to lose tug-of-war? In front of Vanessa? Absolutely not.”
Ines, who is now eight years old and currently sitting at the dining table, trying to paint her nails with red nail polish, looked up. "We cannot lose tug-of-war, Mom. That’s gonna be sooo embarrassing.”
“I know, honey. Of course we will win.” Belly said, her eyes still scanning the room, “As soon as I find this pot.”
“Good morning, students, parents and faculty! I am Principal Jones, and it is my absolute honor to welcome you all to the annual Third Grade Field Day! I looked at the weather app this morning, and whew, it is going to be hot—hot, so please remember to hydrate. Parents and students, today is not about winning. It is about survival and about applying enough sunscreen that you slide right past your opponents in the relay race like a greased-up penguin…umm, okaaaay, the medical tent is over to your left, yes, the white tent with four teachers who may or may not know basic first-aid… I am kidding… Alright, well, that would be all and welcome again to the annual third grade field day, and good luck to everyone!”
Ines was sitting cross-legged on a picnic blanket, aggressively fluttering a plastic folding fan back and forth. Her face red as a tomato, hair sticking unto her forehead like a wet seaweed.
"My legs are melting, Mom," Ines announced, her voice a theatrical whine. "I can feel it. If I melt completely, I’m just going to be a puddle of sludge in a potato sack.”
Belly, who was currently wrestling with a jammed zipper on a canvas tote bag, didn't look up. "Your legs are not melting, Ines. Just keep fanning. Scoot closer, I need to reapply your sunscreen.”
"The fan is broken," Ines groaned, dropping face-first onto Belly’s lap, “It’s just moving the hot air around.” Belly lathers sunscreen all over Ines’s back and arms.
Right next to her, Jamie was slumped so far down in his folding lawn chair, looking equally miserable. He was staring down at a plastic cup with an expression of profound revulsion.
“Mom, this is just cruel.” Jamie chimed in, holding up his cup containing a bright red liquid, he’s looking at it like he was just given poison. “You forgot the blue Gatorade.”
Belly sighs, “It’s a sports drink, Jamie. It has electrolytes or whatever. Drink it and stop complaining.”
"It’s red, Mom," Jamie protested, his voice cracking slightly. “Red Gatorade tastes like liquid cough syrup. The ones the doctor forces you to drink when you have strep. Ugh.” He grimaces.
“Well, it is cherry and it’s a classic flavor!”
“Classic? More like crime.” He mutters, crossing his arms, refusing to take another sip. “Mom, if I collapse today because of dehydration, just know that my last thought was Cool Blue Gatorade.”
“Oh, stop being a drama queen, if you don’t like it then don’t drink it. And—”
Before Belly could launch into a lecture about gratitude, a loud whistle pierced through the field, followed by a roar of cheers from the nearby outdoor basketball courts.
Belly instantly stood up on her tiptoes and claps, "Oh! The parents' charity tournament is starting!"
Across the court, the dads were split into two teams: Red and Blue. Towering over most of the competition in a bright blue jersey that matched his sneakers was Conrad, who looked entirely too focused and locked in.
Jamie nudges Ines and points toward the court, laughing, “Yo check out Dad, why does he look like he’s playing for the Knicks?”
“Well, he better treat this like the NBA finals.” Belly intervened, “Do you know the prize if we win? Parking privileges. You hear that, kids? If we win, we get front row parking space. No more hauling your things from the back of the parking lot when you have home games.”
“Mom, you do know dad carries most of the things, right?”
“Well, that’s because he insists I don’t carry anything! He says carrying you guys for 9 months is enough. How sweet.” Belly smiles as Jamie and Ines fake gag.
The referee tossed the ball into the air, blew a sharp blast on his whistle, and the parents' charity game officially commenced.
The vibe was surprisingly chill, at first. More casual exchange of baskets. One dad, in a slightly-too-tight mesh jersey jogged up and down, trading easy lay-ups. Another dad from the Blue team makes a nice bank shot, and everyone cheered.
"See? This is nice," Belly said, leaning back. "They're just out there having fun."
"It's boring," Jamie countered, slumped in his chair, still nursing his hated red Gatorade. "Nobody's even trying to dunk and dad looks like he’s playing in slow motion.”
By the time the third quarter rolled around, the heat and a two-point deficit, apparently began to rot the sportsmanship of the Red Team.
Greg, who was wearing a sweatband around his head, drove into the lane, which was blocked by another dad from the blue team; Mike, which made Greg aggressively clear the space by throwing a sharp, wildly unnecessary elbow right into Mike’s ribs.
Mike groaned, doubling over.
The whistle blew instantly, but Greg didn't back down. "That was all ball! Stand up, Mike!"
"You threw an elbow, Greg!" Mike gasped, straightening up and stepping into Greg's face.
On the court, Conrad stepped directly between Greg and Mike.
He looked like a tired father separating two toddlers in a sandbox. He placed his hand on Greg’s shoulder, firmly steering him backward.
"Whoa, whoa, easy, big guy," Conrad could be heard saying, "Let's keep it lowered to a simmer. You don’t want the kids to see you fighting, alright?”
Greg muttered something aggressive but ultimately allowed himself to be pushed back, realizing that tangling with Conrad; who was a solid four inches taller; was not gonna go well with him.
A mom sitting a few feet away from Belly; wearing oversized designer sunglasses and holding a hydro-flask sighed loudly. "Oh, great. Greg’s at it again. Someone check his blood pressure.”
Belly chuckled, turning to her. "Is he always like this?"
"Every school event," the mom said, shaking her head. "Last year at the bake sale, he almost fought Linda over a lemon bar. Hi, sorry, Denise, Mike’s wife.” The mom, named Denise, reached out to shake Belly’s hand.
“Isabel. And the tall one on the Blue Team trying to play peacemaker is my husband, Conrad."
Denise slid her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, her eyes widening. "Ohhh! You're Fisher's wife! Nice to meet you. And wow, lucky you. You know the teachers at this school are absolutely obsessed with him, right?"
Belly blinked, her eyebrows shooting up. "They are?"
"Ohh, it’s a show during afternoon pickup," Denise chuckled, leaning in closer. "Last month, I was waiting by the front gates when Conrad came to pick up Ines and Jamie. I swear, the third-grade math teacher, Ms. Albright, suddenly forgot how to count. She practically sprinted across the school just to hand him Ines’s homework folder, laughing at literally everything he said.”
"Wait, really?" Belly asked, highly amused.
"Mom, it’s true," Jamie chimed in from his lawn chair, finally taking an interest in the conversation. "Whenever Dad picks me up, Mrs. Fernandez, the guidance counselor, suddenly wants to stand by the parking lot exit. She says she’s ‘monitoring’.”
“Remember that school mug dad brought home? That was from Mrs. Fernandez.” He continues,
"And Ms. Gable too.” Ines joins.
“Oh, Mr. Fisher, are you here to pick up Ines?” Ines mocks her teacher’s voice and laughs.
Denise laughed, taking a sip from her hydro-flask. "Exactly. Honestly, Isabel, the PTA meetings would have a 100% attendance rate if your husband was the board president.”
“Good thing he doesn’t have the time, then.” Belly chuckles, turning back to the game.
“Oh, look the game is starting again.”
Fourth quarter arrived and it’s now a sweat-drenched battle. Both teams are now tied at 56. The pressure suddenly skyrocketing.
"Ten seconds!" Denise yelled, gripping her hydro-flask like a weapon. "Mike, don't you dare turn it over!"
The clock was ticking down mercilessly. 9... 8...
With a defender right in his space, Conrad locked eyes with a dad from Class C, fired a crisp, chest-level pass to him, and immediately cut toward the baseline. The defender bit on the movement, but Conrad pivoted sharply, creating just enough separation to call for the ball back. He caught it on the return pass, his sneakers squeaking aggressively against the floor. 6…5…
"Drive, Dad, drive!" Jamie yelled. Ines and Belly now up on their feet. “C’mon, baby!”
Greg lunged forward, trying to trap Conrad and force a turnover. For a split second, it looked like Conrad was cornered. But with 3 seconds left on the clock, he executed a lightning-fast crossover, dished the ball off to Mike in the paint, and instantly slid backward behind the line. Mike, realizing he was swallowed up by the defense, frantically whipped the ball back out to Conrad.
“Fisher!” he shouts.
“Ahhhh! Go dad! Shoot it, shoot it!” Ines frantically shouts. 2…1…
Conrad caught it. He took a dramatic step back to clear Greg’s desperate, flailing arm, squared his shoulders, and released a rainbow three-pointer just as the buzzer echoed.
The ball hung in the air for an eternity. Belly, Jamie, Ines, and Denise all held their breath.
“And… IT’S IN! Conrad Fisher scores a three for the blue team! Blue team wins!”
The place absolutely exploded. Conrad was instantly swarmed by a mob of ecstatic, heavy-breathing dads pumping their fists.
"YES!" Belly shrieked, jumping up and down so hard she nearly took out the picnic blanket. Ines let out a victorious, high-pitched squeal.
Conrad broke away from the huddle of high-fiving dads, wiping a stream of sweat from his forehead with the collar of his jersey, jogged over to the shade of the big tree, a triumphant, yet exhausted grin on his face.
Jamie was the first one off the picnic blanket, met his dad halfway and threw his arms around him in a quick, rib-cracking hug. "Not bad at all, old man," Jamie joked, “I thought your knees were going to give out.”
"Hey, respect the elders," Conrad panted, chuckling as he ruffled Jamie's hair.
Belly stepped up next, but before Conrad could even offer a sweaty apology for a hug, she looped her arms around his neck and pulled him down into a kiss.
Conrad blinked in surprise as she finally pulled back. He looked down at her, a thoroughly amused but slightly confused smirk playing on his lips. "Wow. Not that I'm complaining, but what exactly was that for?"
Belly casually shrugged, casting a brief, pointed glance back toward the school gates where Denise’s afternoon pickup commentary was still fresh in her mind. She turned back to Conrad with a playful glint in her eye.
"Just making sure the teachers know you’re mine," Belly replied smoothly.
Right on cue, a synchronized groan erupted from behind them.
"Oh, come on! Gross!" Jamie yelled, shielding his eyes with his hands and turning away in dramatic disgust.
Ines dropped her folding fan onto the picnic blanket and dramatically flopped back onto the grass, covering her face with her hands. "My eyes! They’re burning!”
Conrad laughed, as he wrapped a sweaty arm around Belly’s shoulders, intentionally pulling her closer just to hear his children groan louder. “I’m always gonna be yours, Belly. Always.”
By three in the afternoon, Ines and Conrad walked hand-in-hand back towards the rest of the family, a shiny faux-gold medal draped proudly around her neck.
When the whistle blew for the potato sack race, Ines practically launched herself across the field, leaving a trail of tripped-over third graders from another class in her wake.
"I told you," Ines said, admiring her reflection in the shiny plastic surface of her medal while fanning herself, “I was like a rocket ship, wasn’t I, Dad?” she turns to look at her dad, Conrad nodded, grinning down at her.
"Total rocket ship, sweetie, you went out of this world." Belly smiled, wiping a stray smudge of dirt off Ines’s nose.
“Dude, you looked like a pink grasshopper.” Jamie added, “Did you see the kid who face-planted by the cones?” he laughs and high-fives Ines.
Just as Ines was about to recount her glorious victory for the fourth time, the school’s megaphone crackled to life over the loudspeaker system.
"Attention, parents and students! We are moving into our final events of the afternoon. Will all participants for the Mother’s Tug-of-War please report to the center muddy patch on the main field? Repeat, Mom's Tug-of-War is now live!"
Belly froze, her eyes snapping toward the center field where a massive, terrifyingly thick hemp rope lay coiled in the grass.
Denise, who was sitting a few feet away aggressively re-applying sunscreen, looked over at Belly. "Oh, it’s on. Isabel, please tell me you're on the Blue Team."
"Blue Team forever, Denise," Belly said, a sudden, dangerous spark igniting in her eyes as she stood up and stretched her hamstrings. She kicked off her sandals and tied her sneakers tight.
Conrad, who was currently icing his knee, looked up at his wife. A knowing smile crept onto his face. "Oh, boy. Look at that posture. The red team better be ready.”
She ties her hair back into a tight ponytail, "The Red Team moms may have muscle, but we have strategy.”
Conrad laughed, leaning back. "Go get 'em, honey. Just remember to plant both feet firmly, okay? Be careful with the back posture, too. Remember, you’re driving us home today.
"Alright, you two," Conrad said, looking over at Jamie and Ines. "Go with your mom. And cheer as loud as you can. She’s going to need the motivation."
"Can't we just cheer from here, Dad?”
"No laxing on duty, son," Conrad said, tapping his own chest. "I’m the casualty here. I have to sit and rest this knee so I can actually walk to the car later.”
He looks back to his wife, “But I promise, I’ll be cheering for your mom on in my heart, in my mind..." Conrad leaned back, a wicked, low-register smirk spreading across his face as he muttered under his breath, "...and definitely later in the bedroom."
Belly, who was just a few paces away dust-kicking her sneakers into the grass, caught the tail end of his rumbling voice but couldn't quite make out the words over the noise. She whipped her head around, her eyes narrowing playfully. "What was that, babe?”
Luckily, the kids didn't hear a thing. Ines was too busy adjusting her medal, and Jamie was scanning the area for any sign of a rogue blue Gatorade stash.
He cleared his throat, maintaining a perfectly innocent smile, "Nothing, I said, Good luck and I love you.”
"Yeah, yeah, sure," Belly laughed, shaking her head, making her way to the center field. “Come on, kids!"
The center field looked like something out of a combat zone. A rolled hemp rope right over a muddy patch of grass, and a thick white line in the center of the muck.
The referee; a volunteer sixth-grade teacher— who wears white shoes in a tug-of-war? —unpacks the rope and measures equal parts for the teams.
Vanessa, wearing a neon pink sun-visor, marched up to the boundary line, hands on her hips looking Belly up and down with a pitying smirk, “Hey, Isabel.” she called out, “Bring your walking shoes for morning drop-off next week! It’s gonna be a long walk! Oh, and pack an umbrella for the kids, too!”
Another Red Team mom, wearing a matching high-end visor, cackled from behind her. "Don't break a sweat, Blue Team! Just hand over the rope!”
Denise’s jaw dropped. She aggressively slapped her own thighs, stepping up right next to Belly. "Oh, so you think wearing an atrocious neon pink visor makes you an athlete, Vanessa? Bring it on!"
Belly didn't say a word. She just rolled her shoulders, her eyes narrowing into slits as she took her place near the front of the line, digging her sneakers deep into the dirt.
The referee blew the whistle, and the first round erupted into pure chaos. It was a brutal, neck-and-neck. Belly’s muscles screamed as she pulled with everything she had. For two solid minutes, the red marker in the middle of the rope hovered back and forth over the white line like a pendulum.
But the Red Team had the upper hand in raw momentum. With one final, synchronized heave, they dug their heels in and yanked.
Belly and Denise stumbled forward into the dirt. The whistle blew. Red Team won round one.
Vanessa immediately dropped the rope, threw her hands in the air, and began doing a victory dance. "Woo! That’s right!” she high-fives her fellow red team moms, “Enjoy the scenic route, Fisher!”
Bitch. Belly thought. She stood up, shook her arms and turned to Denise and the rest of the blue team moms. “Okay. Listen up. New strategy. We aren’t just pulling on three. We’re going to counter-lean. Wait for them to get exhausted when they pull on us and then when Vanessa takes a breath, we drop and pull like crazy, okay?” Everyone agreed and nodded, their faces solemn as they take on their first, and hopefully last loss.
Round two began. The Red Team pulled hard, thanks to their I-go-to-the-rowing-club-five-times-a-week-to-row star player, but the Blue Team moms locked their knees and held the line. The moment Vanessa’s posture slackened for a fraction of a second, Belly yelled, "NOW!"
The Blue Team dropped their weight in perfect unison and pulled like hell. The Red Team moms flew forward, crashing into the mud as the red marker crossed firmly into blue territory. The sidelines erupted, and Denise began aggressively pointing at the floor. "Not in our house, Vanessa! Go back to the rowing club!"
By the third and final round, the exhaustion from the previous two rounds had caught up to everyone. Every single mom on the field was spent. Sarah; the mom with twins was massaging her biceps. Denise was shaking her arms and stretching them over her shoulder. Belly’s arms feel like jelly, and their feet sore, making the rope feel like its now ten times heavier than before.
I am not letting my husband carry Jamie and Ines’s ridiculously heavy bags from the back of the parking lot!
The final round whistle blew. Instantly, the Red Team took the advantage. The Blue Team was losing ground, their boots sliding inch by inch through the slick mud. Belly’s grip was slipping. Denise was groaning in agony behind her. Vanessa was gritting her teeth, taunting through her breaths; "It's... ours... Fisher!"
The crowd was going wild. The other dads were shouting, Conrad now standing up to watch and Ines was jumping up and down, her medal clinking against her chest. "Mom! Pull!
Jamie watched from the front row of the spectators, seeing the exact moment the strength began to drain from his mother's face. He looked back toward the tree where his dad was watching, then back to his mom.
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
Jamie cupped his hands around his mouth, stepped right up to the boundary line, and screamed at the top of his lungs, “MOM! DAD AND I BROKE THE CLAY POT LAST WEEK!”
Time seemed to stop.
Belly’s eyes snapped wide open. The words echoed in her brain; pot, broken, last week, Conrad
The sixty-dollar authentic Jeolla-province earthenware who was gifted to her by her halmeoni, the pot where she had spent her whole morning mourning yesterday, spent three days seasoning, and cared for like her third child had apparently been assassinated by her own husband and son. Which means they lied when they said they haven’t seen it when she looked for it yesterday.
A wave of fury coursed through her. An adrenaline shot of ab-so-lute wrath.
“YOU. DID. WHAT?!” With a terrifying battle cry, Belly’s grip hardened. She yanked the rope with so much force the red team got completely caught off-guard. Denise and the other moms felt the sudden surge and capitalized on it, throwing their final ounces of strength into the pull.
YANK
Vanessa and the entire Red Team were dragged violently across the white line, flying face-first into the mud like a row of falling dominoes.
Blue Team won!
Everyone cheered, Denise threw her arm around Belly, screaming about parking spots, and as well as the other moms cheering, hugging and high-fiving their fellow moms. But Belly? She wasn’t celebrating. She was standing perfectly still, holding the rope, breathing heavily as she slowly turned her head toward the crowd.
Jamie stepped back, his face instantly losing all its color. He looked over at Ines. "Uhmmm, Neni. If I don’t make it back home, you’ll promise to feed Batter, right?”
“Sure.”
“JAMIE OLIVER CONKLIN-FISHER!”
Belly dropped the rope, pointed a muddy finger at her son, and began marching directly toward him
“Ohhh, government name.” Ines turns to Jamie, “You’re sooo dead.” She deadpans.
Jamie’s survival instinct kicked in as soon as he saw his mother’s death stare.
He spun on his heel and bolted across the grass, sprinting toward his dad. It looked like he was running away from a grizzly bear—metaphorically and perhaps, literally.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Mom!" Jamie screamed back over his shoulder, his voice cracking with a mix of terror and uncontrollable laughter.
Conrad, now sitting back in his lawn chair, oblivious to what’s currently happening, happily claps his hands and tosses a high-five to a passing dad, “Way to go, blue team! Front row parking spaces!”
SLAM
Jamie practically threw himself into the grass at Conrad’s feet, skidding to a halt and grabbing his dad's arm. "Dad! Dad, get up! We gotta move!"
Conrad blinked, looking down at his disheveled, laughing, panicked son. "What? Move where? The game is over; we won the parking spots."
"No, Dad, you don't understand," Jamie panted, pointing a trembling finger toward his back. “I told mom about the pot.”
Conrad’s smile instantly vanished. The Capri Sun dramatically falling from his hand to the ground, calmly he asked, “You what?”
“They were losing, Dad! Her grip was losing. And the red team were doing like this,” throwing around his hands, “…to mom’s team. Plus, you know she can’t lose to Kiara’s mom whatever her name is!” Jamie argued, his shoulders shaking with laughter as he looked back to see Belly marching across the field, a trail of dust practically kicking up behind her muddy sneakers.
“Look at her, she’s so mad!”
Conrad watched his wife approach, his life flashing before his eyes. He slowly turned his head back to his son—his face in disbelief and betrayal.
"You could not have chosen any other way to motivate your mom?!" Conrad hissed, his voice dropping into a frantic whisper. "You couldn't have told her the Range got a dent or… or y-you lost your phone?!”
"It worked, didn't it?!" Jamie choked out, shielding himself behind Conrad's chair as Belly comes closer.
Ines jogged up right up to them, still holding her plastic folding fan, "You guys are in sooooo much trouble," she called out cheerfully.
Belly was now less than ten feet away. Her shirt had a streak of mud across the front, her ponytail was slightly askew, and she was pointing a dirt-caked finger directly at her husband.
Conrad immediately raised both hands in the air in defense.
“Honey, Baby, Darling, Mother of my children, the absolute love of my life since I was three, please just let me explain.”
"A raccoon, Conrad?" Belly stop-marched right in front of him, planting her hands on her hips. "You sat there on our couch, looked me dead in the eyes, and told me a neighborhood mammal with thumbs broke into our kitchen and stole our pot?
Conrad cleared his throat, his collar suddenly feeling very tight. He looked at his son, then at his wife. "Maybe... maybe a-a.. raccoon took it?"
Belly stopped dead in her tracks. She stared at her husband. "A raccoon. Took a heavy clay pot. From inside our kitchen cabinets."
"They’re very crafty. I saw a TikTok where a raccoon stole a guy's AirPods."
“Well unless the raccoon also had a craving for fermented bean paste, I doubt it targeted the ddukbaegi.”
"Uh," Conrad stammered. "I think... maybe Laurel took it to her house?"
“Why would she? She has three of her own.” Belly said, pulling out her phone. “I’m calling her.”
“No!” Conrad and Jamie yelled in unison, jumping up from the couch.
“Why not?”
"Because!" Jamie scrambled for an excuse. "Because... grandma is probably busy preparing Ines’s pom-poms. You know how she gets. If you interrupt her pom-pom flow, she gets cranky."
“Ines doesn’t even use pom-poms! Ugh! I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you,” she points to Conrad, “… and you,” to Jamie, “You are grounded for a month! No baseball for a month!”
“What?! Mom!”
“No complaining!”
"You two are unbelievable," Belly said, picking up the lawn chair. “Home. Now!”
Everybody scrambled to pack.
The car ride home was silent. Belly didn't drive either.
When they finally pulled into the driveway, the silence was broken by the sharp, definitive slam of the front passenger door. Belly didn't wait for anyone. She marched straight up the porch steps and into the house, the door clicking shut behind her. Ines following closely.
"Wow," Jamie whispered, his voice cracking slightly.
"We are in deep trouble, Jamie," Conrad said, putting the car back into reverse. "Get out. Go inside and protect your sister. I need to handle this.”
“Why do you sound like a soldier?”
“Going to war? That’s because I am.”
“Where are you going?” Jamie asks as he unbuckles his seatbelt.
“To pull out the big guns.” Conrad replies grimly, and drives away.
He bursts through the flower shop doors with exactly five minutes left before the local florist locked their doors for the evening. Ten minutes later, he was speeding back to the house, the passenger seat occupied by a massive, bouquet of deep red roses and a box of chocolates.
Meanwhile, back at the house, Jamie was also realizing he needed a backup plan. He sneaked out into the backyard with a pair of kitchen shears, targeting Belly's garden bushes, he hacked away at a cluster of blue hydrangeas; unevenly. Some stems were six inches long, some two, a stray caterpillar was gently shaken off the onto the grass before he bunched them together into a chaotic, messy clump.
A few minutes later, the front door clicked open. Conrad walked in, holding the bouquet of roses and chocolates upward like a shield. Jamie emerged from the kitchen at the exact same time, holding his mangled, leaking bundle of blue hydrangeas.
Two generations of Fishermen, ready to face the wrath of an Asian woman, who lost a valuable kitchen item.
"Where is she?" Conrad whispered.
"Upstairs," Jamie breathed. "She went straight for the shower."
Taking a collective deep breath, they walked up the stairs, moving silently. They reached the master bedroom door, behind which the sound of the shower had just faded into the hum of a hair dryer.
Conrad raised a hand and gave the door three soft, incredibly polite knocks.
“Yes?” Belly’s voice called out, still carrying a dangerously crisp edge.
"It’s us, honey," Conrad called out through the door. "We come in peace… and with gifts.”
A moment later, the door swung open. Belly was standing there, freshly showered and wrapped in a plush robe, her hair up in a towel. She didn't look completely furious anymore, but her arms were firmly crossed as she walked back over to her vanity table, sitting down in front of the mirror.
Conrad and Jamie shuffled into the bedroom like two dogs who knew they weren't supposed to be on the couch. Conrad gently set the roses and the chocolates on the edge of the vanity, while Jamie thrust his uneven, leaking blue hydrangeas forward.
Belly looked at the roses, then at the sad bundle of hydrangeas, and finally met their guilty reflections in the mirror. She let out a slow sigh, picking up her night cream.
"Alright," Belly said, her reflection eyeing them narrowly. “How did you do it?”
“Jamie flicked me with soap.”
“Dad, you hit me with a sponge!”
“You called me old!”
“Aren’t you?! Sorry.”
“Dude... I'm not even 40 yet…”
“Okay! Enough!” Belly exclaims, putting an end to their argument. “God! It’s like I gave birth to two Jamie’s.”
"There were sixty-two pieces, Mom," Jamie added quietly. "We counted while we were crying and sweeping."
Conrad instantly seized the moment, stepping forward and dropping to his good knee right beside her vanity. He took her hand, giving her his best, most sincere puppy-dog eyes.
“My darling, darling wife, I promise I will buy you another one, three, I don’t care.”
Belly looked down at her husband, then at her son who was currently nodding along like a bobblehead, and finally let out a long, genuine laugh.
"Fine," Belly said, pulling her hand back to take a chocolate from the box. "The apology is accepted.”
“And Jamie?"
“Yes, mom?”
“Next time you cut up my hydrangeas, at least leave the stem long enough to put them in a vase, okay?”
Belly took a deliberate, slow bite of the chocolate, savoring it while her gaze shifted back and forth between her husband and her son.
She leaned back in her vanity chair, folding her arms. "Since we’re clearing the air, and since the concept of honesty has temporarily returned to this household..." She paused, her eyes narrowing playfully as she looked toward the bedroom doorway. "Is there anything else I should know about?”
Both of them shake their heads, “Nope.”
“Really? Because now that I think about it, that tall ceramic vase near the bottom of the stairs has been looking a little different… lately.”
There was a slight pause.
“Jamie hit it with his baseball bat three months ago and I had to buy another one to replace it.”
“Daaaaaaaaaaaad!”
Belly gasps, “Oh, you mother—"
The author silently backs up and turns towards the bedroom door, leaving the three of them still arguing. Ines, holding Biscuit, now entering the room…
You can still hear them fighting over the vase even from the front door.
“That was a hand-painted vase from our anniversary trip!”
“I know. I went online and found the artisan and I paid for express shipping!”
“2 months, Jamie! No baseball for 2 months!”
“What? Mom! What about my game next week?”
“Well, you can kiss that game goodbye.”
“Oh, hello my darling, do you want chocolate?”
“Biscuit, no, no, no, no, don't eat that. That’s not good for you…”
The author closes the front door slowly and walks away, with a smile on her face.