Chapter 20: The Nursery Window
Junior’s second birthday fell on a Saturday, which meant Dojun was home, which meant the party was perfect.
Hana had organized everything: balloons, cake (shaped like a robot, because Junior had decided that robots were the highest form of life), and exactly seven guests (Junior was very specific about the guest list, which consisted entirely of stuffed animals and Jihoon).
“I’m honored to be on the list,” Jihoon said, sitting cross-legged on the nursery floor with a party hat that was too small for his head. “I outrank the stuffed penguin.”
“By one position,” Hana clarified. “The penguin was a close second.”
Junior ate cake, opened presents (more robots), and fell asleep in Dojun’s arms at exactly 7:14 PM with frosting on his nose and a tiny robot clutched in his fist.
Dojun sat in the rocking chair by the nursery window, holding his sleeping son, watching the Pangyo evening settle into quiet.
Two years old. In his first life, there had been no second birthday. No robot cake. No party hat on Jihoon’s head. Just code and boardrooms and the slow, invisible countdown to catastrophe.
“You’re thinking loud again,” Hana said from the doorway.
“Just grateful.”
“For what?”
“For this. All of this. The cake, the robots, the frosting on his nose. The life I almost didn’t get to live.”
Hana crossed the room and leaned against the rocking chair. “You always talk about this life like it’s borrowed. Like someone might take it back.”
“Maybe that’s why I hold on so tight.”
“Or maybe you could try holding on and relaxing at the same time. It’s possible. I’ve seen parents do it.”
“Those parents didn’t—” He stopped himself.
“Didn’t what?”
“Never mind. You’re right. I’ll try to relax.”
He didn’t relax. But he held his son, and he watched the stars through the nursery window, and he promised himself—again, as he promised every night—that this life, this borrowed, impossible, precious life, was worth protecting at any cost.