“Mrs. Park? Your son’s lucky. My mom wouldn’t know a garden if it bit her.”

That’s when I knew: he wasn't trying to corrupt her with malice. He was trying to corrupt her with pity .

That night, Yuna and I planted new irises. She didn’t apologize—she didn’t have to. She just said, “Next time, show me the scar sooner.”

He laughed—a hollow, startled sound. Then he saw her face. No softness. No pity. Just a mother who had remembered what she was protecting.

Finally, the betrayal: she invited him to dinner. He sat in my father’s chair. He complimented her japchae. He asked about her day. And when I stormed off, I heard her say, “He’s always been sensitive. Don’t mind him.”