Accidentally become a father

~~~ • ~~~

Our footsteps came to a halt in the kitchen.

This room...

It was larger than I had expected.

It wasn’t just your ordinary home kitchen.

A long island counter sat in the middle. The surface was clean, almost gleaming.

Along the wall—rows of cooking utensils hung neatly.

Knives of various sizes.

Pans.

Pots.

Metal ladles lined up like a display.

Everything was in order.

As if every object had its own designated place.

_

I stood a few paces back.

The box of meat from earlier was already open on the counter.

A few cuts had been taken out.

The color was a vivid, fresh red.

The woman walked over to one side of the kitchen.

She picked up an apron.

Lifting the straps, she slipped it on from the front.

The fabric draped perfectly against her figure.

It looked simple.

But—

In my eyes.

It looked stunning.

It suited her perfectly.

...

The thought just sprang into my mind out of nowhere.

I immediately furrowed my brow.

What was I just thinking—

I shook my head slowly.

Not enough.

I raised a hand to my own cheek.

*Smack!*

A light slap, but the sound echoed clearly in the room.

The woman whipped her head around.

"What’s wrong?!"

I felt the heat rising in my face.

"It’s nothing."

I averted my gaze.

Focus.

I need to focus.

The body is merely a vessel.

The soul is what matters.

...

For some reason—

that exact phrase only made my thoughts spiral further out of control.

An image flashed in my mind.

Vividly clear.

As if I had truly lived it.

—

The same kitchen.

But it felt... warmer.

More alive.

She was standing in front of me.

Trying to put on an apron.

But this time—

her hands were struggling to reach behind her back.

Falling short.

She let out a soft sigh.

"Darling... could you help me?"

Her voice was gentle.

"Your hands can’t reach, as usual."

I stepped closer.

Right behind her.

The distance between us was close.

Too close.

My hands grasped the apron strings.

Tying them.

Slowly.

Out of the corner of my eye—

the kitchen door opened.

Yuna stood there.

"Papa... Mama..."

Her voice was quiet.

"...what’s for breakfast today?"

She turned her head.

Slowly.

Her eyes met mine.

Then—

she smiled.

Gentle.

Warm.

A faint curve graced her lips.

"Hehe... Darling..."

"...what should we cook today?"

Her soft chuckle.

It felt so comforting.

—

...

"Hey... sir?"

A touch.

Light.

A single finger pressed against my chest.

I jolted slightly.

The world that had just felt so warm—shattered in an instant.

Back.

To the kitchen.

To the harsh white light.

To the soft hum of the AC.

In front of me—

Mika’s older sister stood very close.

Her hand was still reaching out.

Her fingertip touching my chest, as if checking to see if I was really there.

"What’s wrong?"

"Are you alright?"

I took a short breath.

"...Ha."

This isn’t good.

I shook my head quickly.

A little too quickly.

"I’m fine."

Don’t get swept up in the moment.

Don’t get any strange ideas.

Don’t hope.

"Sorry... do you mind if I smoke in here?"

She raised an eyebrow slightly, then nodded.

"Yes, of course."

"My dad is a smoker too. So there’s no need to hold back."

"Thank you."

I rolled my sleeves up to my elbows.

A small movement, but enough to buy me a brief pause.

She walked to the other side of the kitchen.

And picked up a book.

It was quite thick.

And the cover was a little worn.

A cookbook.

I took a cigarette out of my pocket.

Slipped it between my lips.

Click.

A small flame flickered to life.

I took a drag.

The first plume of smoke drifted out slowly.

Rising upward.

Vanishing into the vent.

I felt a little calmer.

"So?" she asked, opening the book.

"What are we going to cook?"

"Hm..."

She turned a few pages, then stopped.

"Take a look at this."

I stepped closer.

Standing beside her.

Close enough to clearly see the contents of the page.

A picture of meat.

Perfectly grilled.

Steak.

Below it—an ingredients list.

Followed by neat step-by-step instructions.

"Yeah..." I nodded slowly.

"This one is fine."

She didn’t respond immediately.

She just turned to the next page.

"How about this one?"

Another picture.

Still meat.

A different technique.

"This one works too."

Next page.

"And this one?"

"Hm... not bad."

She stopped.

She didn’t turn any more pages.

Slowly, she closed the book.

Then she turned to look at me.

Staring at me flatly.

"Honestly... what do you actually want?"

"I showed you several options."

"Why do you keep answering like that?"

I fell silent for a moment.

A wisp of smoke escaped slowly from my lips.

"Well... what can I say."

"I’m really not good at making choices."

"They all look... decent."

She crossed her arms.

Observing me for a few seconds longer.

Not judging.

More like trying to understand.

"In that case..."

"what are we going to cook?"

I turned my gaze toward the counter.

The pile of meat was still there.

A lot of it.

Too much for just one type of dish.

"What if..." I paused for a second.

"...we just make all of them?"

She followed my line of sight.

Looked at the meat.

Then back to me.

"Yeah... there’s definitely enough meat for that."

She opened the book again briefly.

Skimmed through it.

Then closed it.

She walked over to the fridge.

Opened it.

Closed it again.

Then walked back.

"We don’t have enough ingredients."

"I’ll go buy them."

I reached into my pocket.

Checking.

Wallet.

It’s there.

She tilted her head slightly.

"Do you even know what you’re supposed to buy?"

I stared back at her.

"...No."

"In that case—"

"I’m coming with you."

She untied the apron from her body.

Her movements were quick.

Practical.

"Yeah, I suppose you’ll have to."

I turned around first.

Stepped out of the kitchen.

She followed behind me.

As we passed through the living room—

"Mika...!" she called out.

"I’m heading out for a bit!"

From upstairs—

"Okay, sis!"

I didn’t stop.

My steps continued toward the door.

And behind me—

her footsteps kept following mine.

__

We stepped out of the house.

She slowly pulled the door shut until it was tightly closed.

Click.

Then she turned around, walking through the gate.

She pushed it open, then pulled it shut again with a soft metallic sound.

Clink.

We started walking.

Side by side.

Our paces matched perfectly, neither of us taking the lead.

Neither of us falling behind.

The air outside felt warmer now.

The sun had risen higher.

The sounds of the neighborhood began to drift in—a door opening, a passing vehicle, the distant murmur of voices.

_

"By the way..." she said quietly.

I glanced over slightly.

"Where is Yuna’s mother now?"

I didn’t stop walking.

"...Yuna’s mother..."

"I have no idea."

"I don’t know where she is right now."

...

A brief silence.

"I’m sorry..."

"I didn’t mean to bring up something uncomfortable."

"It’s fine."

"I don’t really think about it anymore either."

We kept walking.

A few steps later.

"It must be hard."

I turned my head slightly.

She kept looking straight ahead.

"Raising Yuna all by yourself."

"I can’t even imagine..."

She raised a hand slightly.

Counting on her fingers.

"Making meals every day, washing her clothes, cleaning the house, working..."

"...and so many other things."

I stopped.

By reflex.

She stopped as well.

"I don’t always make her meals."

She turned back.

And met my gaze.

"Yuna cooks for herself... sometimes."

...

"I don’t wash her clothes either."

"She washes them herself."

...

"As for cleaning..."

"sometimes she’s the one who does it."

...

Silence.

We looked at each other.

A brief breeze passed by.

Gently swaying the tips of her hair.

"I suppose..."

"...it’s not as hard as you imagine."

She didn’t answer right away.

Her expression shifted.

Growing a little more serious.

"Hold on..."

She held up a hand, as if to pause the conversation.

"Let me process this."

I waited.

Then...

She took a deep breath.

And exhaled slowly.

"Since when..."

"...has Yuna been without her mother?"

I thought for a moment.

"Probably..."

"...since she was about nine."

"So before that..."

"Yuna was still being taken care of by her mom?"

"Yes."

"And after that..."

"...she started becoming independent?"

I nodded.

"More or less."

She lowered her head a little.

And started walking again.

I resumed my pace as well.

Not long after.

She spoke up again.

"You’re a good parent."

I glanced at her.

She wasn’t looking at me.

Her eyes were still fixed on the road ahead.

"Your daughter is still young."

"Around the same age as my little sister."

She paused for a moment.

"...but... she’s already capable of living like that."

I smiled a little.

Faintly.

"Yeah... I suppose."

I shifted my gaze forward.

"But..."

She glanced over slightly.

"Every child is different."

Our footsteps remained in sync.

"You can’t compare everyone to Yuna."

...

"Not every child has to be like her."

...

She fell silent.

For a few paces.

Then she nodded slowly.

"I understand."

Her voice sounded softer now.

"You’re right..."

Her expression seemed gentler.

Calmer.

"Every child is different..."

...

"...and as a parent..."

I glanced at her.

She continued.

"...all you can do is give them your best."

.

.

.

"Yeah..."

~~ • ~~