The voice floats down from the second-floor landing, melodic but commanding, cutting through the sisters' giggling fit.
"Donghwa? Is that you?"
I stiffen, my spine snapping straight again. This is it. The matriarch. I brace myself for a woman made of ice and etiquette, someone who will look down her nose at my dyed hair and wonder why the help is standing in the foyer.
I look up, and my breath hitches.
A woman appears at the top of the stairs, and she is stunning. She has Donghwa’s face—the same high, aristocratic cheekbones, the same elegant brow—but softened by time and a radiant, glowing warmth. She’s wearing a long, silky gown that seems to float around her like water as she moves, shimmering under the chandelier light.
She spots Donghwa standing amidst the chaos of his sisters, and her face transforms.
She shrieks.
It’s not a dignified, high-society greeting. It’s a sound of pure, unadulterated joy.
"My baby!" she cries out, and then she is practically flying down the stairs, the silk of her gown billowing behind her.
I blink, stunned, as she reaches the bottom floor and launches herself at him. Donghwa, who usually looks at physical affection like it’s a contagious disease, actually leans into it. He catches her, letting her wrap her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder.
"You’re home!" she gasps, pulling back to cup his face in her hands, her eyes shimmering with tears. "Look at you! Oh, I missed you so much. Why didn't you text? I would have had the chef start dinner earlier!"
"I’m okay, Mom," Donghwa says, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. "I’m here."
"And you!"
Another voice joins the fray. I look up again to see an elegant older man descending the stairs at a more measured pace, though his smile is just as wide. He’s wearing a cardigan and a pair of old-fashioned spectacles that he pulls off his nose and tucks into his pocket as he reaches the bottom step.
"There you are, son," he says warmly, bypassing the handshake I expected and pulling Donghwa into a firm, two-armed embrace. "Welcome home."
I stand there, clutching the strap of my bag, feeling like I’ve accidentally walked onto the set of a family sitcom.
It’s... a lot.
They surround him instantly, a tight circle of fawning affection.
"How was the drive?" his father asks, clapping a hand on Donghwa’s shoulder. "The roads weren't too bad up the mountain?"
"Did you eat?" his mother interrupts, smoothing his hair back from his forehead, her eyes scanning his face with intense, frantic love. "You look tired. Are you sleeping enough? Is the city too loud? I told the staff to prepare the heated blanket in the annex, I know how your back gets when you drive that motorcycle."
"I took the car, Mom," Donghwa mumbles, looking overwhelmed but oddly resigned to the love-bombing. "And I ate. I’m fine."
"You’re too thin," she decides, fretting over the collar of his henley. "We’ll fix that this weekend. I’ll have them make the galbi-jjim you like."
I watch them, and suddenly, my throat feels incredibly thick.
It’s a physical sensation, a heavy, aching lump that makes it hard to swallow. I’m staring at this scene—the tears in his mother’s eyes, the genuine warmth in his father’s smile, the way his sisters are still hanging off his arms—and it hits me like a punch to the gut.
They just... love him.
There’s no "Did you crush the competition?" There’s no "Why aren't you wearing a suit?" There’s no scanning him for flaws or calculating his market value. They’re just happy he’shere. They’re looking at him like his presence is the only gift they need.
I think of my own homecoming last week. My mother checking her watch because I was three minutes late. My father asking about my GPA before he even asked how I was feeling. The way affection in my house is a currency you earn, not something given freely.
My chest tightens, a hot, stinging sensation pricking at the corners of my eyes. I have to look away, staring at a potted orchid near the door, blinking rapidly to clear the sudden blur in my vision.
I didn't know families could be like this. I thought this kind of warmth was something made up for movies. But here it is, right in front of me, radiating off them in waves so strong I can feel the heat of it from five feet away.
It makes me feel small. It makes me feel incredibly jealous. And mostly, it makes me want to turn around and walk out the door before I do something humiliating, like burst into tears because a stranger hugged her son.
