Chin-Sun Joon hadn't eaten for thirty-six hours. A fluttering sensation invaded every muscle in her body. And the meager nourishment she had before going into labor all went to the baby, it seemed.
"It's such an honor, naming your child after me," Jin Seung, her normally absentee father, said quietly. He sat at her bedside in the otherwise-empty hospital room.
Inhaling sharply at the fresh soreness in her abdomen, Chin-Sun gave in to the temptation to snarl at him. Childbirth permitted her such a privilege, and she doubted she would be able to guiltlessly do so again for a very long time. "I don't want to name it after you. You expected it."
"Not so much that as I didn't know whom else you'd name him after." Jin removed his glasses and looked fondly at her. "Not Brandon, probably."
"Of course not. I never want to see him—" she gritted her teeth, "—again."
"Yes. He told me last week you turned down his marriage proposal."
"Any objections?"
There was a long silence as Jin looked down to his hands. "I'm actually relieved," he says.
"He wanted me to change my family name and take his." She shook her head. "I told him that it wasn't our way. Nobody changes their names back in Korea. Didn't make a difference to him."
"Is that the only reason you refused?"
"No." Chin-Sun shifted delicately as to avoid pain, turning her eyes to one of many blank white walls in the hospital. "He doesn't take me seriously. I should've never gotten involved with a man from Newport."
"At least he will help you take care of the child."
"At least," she sardonically barked back, in too bad a mood to hear any defenses of her unintended. She'd allowed him to help raise the child and even agreed to marry him in five years if he was still around and willing. (And, of course, if he changed his mind on the family name issue.) It didn't matter if her father thought she was being too harsh. Chin-Sun knew she was being too lenient. Brandon Hope would lose interest in her soon enough, flock back to his tribe of rich white people awaiting him in Newport.
More pain. She winced and stretched her back off the hospital bed.
Finally the nurse came back with a bundle in her arms, smiling big. "Say hello to your son!"
"Hmmmm." Chin-Sun takes the baby to inspect him.
The fluttering all over her body absconded to her chest, rising, as she moved a corner of the cloth covering Seung's left eye.
She didn't expect him to be so beautiful. High cheekbones, and a dark fuzz starting on his forehead, black eyes blinking open with a serenity that conquered the complaints of her abdomen.
A shrill wail pierced the air, making her jump. Chin-Sun's eyes roamed over the room in their exhaustion. It took her several seconds to register that the sound was coming from the thing in her arms.
A living thing, as he was so adamantly reminding her.
"He's a talker," the nurse laughed. "We corrected the abnormal heart rate during delivery. Usually it's nothing to worry about, just the umbilical cord getting squeezed or stretched. A little underweight, five pounds and three ounces, but since he was preterm, that's to be expected. He'll make up for it as he grows."
Jin rose from his seat and stood next to his daughter, looming over the baby. "Anyoung, Seung," he smiled tenderly, small but ardent.
The pout disappeared, followed by a bubble of laughter. Another chuckle.
Then the room was filled with Seung's sounds of delight.
"Yes, it's Grampa. Smile at you Grampa Jin!"
Anger and hunger churned around each other in Chin-Sun's stomach. "I'd like to be with him alone. Come back in ten minutes."
Lifting his enthralled stare to her, Jin said, "You did a fine job with him."
She laughed dryly. "Wait eighteen years and see if you feel the same then."
It seemed to hit him, then, and guilt took his face as he sat again and took her hand in his. His grip, as always, was slightly too firm and heartfelt. Her small fingers seemed to flatten under his. "I know you'll do well. And maybe the word of a foolish man in middle age isn't enough, but I've got some friends of superior intellect on my side. They say…" his eyes went small with thought, "they say that the road ahead of you is difficult but rewarding, and that you will weather it well and such a bond will rise up between mother and son as no one has seen before."
She knew her father was making it up, as always. Truth might have been stranger than fiction, but it was never stranger than Jin's fiction.
But for once, his making it up was better than his not making it up, since that meant he had devised all this kindness all by himself.
"Thank you, Appa," Chin-Sun said quietly, looking down at her lap, surprised to find the baby still nestled there in her left arm. Her fingers hurt.
Releasing her hand, Jin stood up. "Yes, you must get acquainted with your child. Just send the nurse to the waiting room when you want to see me again."
After he left, Chin-Sun tried to think of things to say to her son, things that would endear him to her.
No ideas came. She was too tired.
But then she was swarmed with them, thoughts she couldn't put into words. She could see the next twenty years of her son's life, turning him into a passionate actor or temperamental artist, someone of great value to the world but often misunderstood. She could see it all from the ruckus he was still making after Jin was gone, the ruckus he made with her around. This boy would stir up a storm.
Chin-Sun wrapped her other arm around Seung.
Stepping into the frigid office belonging to Cranston Elementary's only counselor, Chin-Sun tightened her cardigan around her shoulders and surveyed the room, waiting for the Counselor Carly Thump to invite her to sit.
Carly Thump did so a little belatedly, although Chin-Sun blinked her frustration away and prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps she was merely busy and behind in her work. Seung could be difficult, and she needed allies.
Finally, Mrs. Thump said, "Ms. Joon?"
"Mrs., actually."
"You're—" her eyes dropped down to the file folder in front of her. "I'm sorry, you're married?"
"No, but 'Miss' after childbirth is a little silly, don't you think?"
"Uh, well," she stared at the paperwork, "Maybe." After a few more moments of scrutiny, she closed the folder and folded her hands over it. "I called you in today regarding your son's behavioral problems."
"I have noticed that he is sometimes inattentive," Chin-Sun offered.
Mrs. Thump shook her head and laughed.
Chin-Sun looked at her. There were unsightly wrinkles around her mouth.
"Inattentive is a big understatement. Your son—"
"His name is Seung."
"Seung," Thump repeated, elongating the word, opening the file and scribbling something down in it.
Clearly she hadn't known how to pronounce it.
"Seung is always out of his seat, disrupting his classmates when they're trying to work, interrupting the teacher with bizarre questions. Yesterday during naptime he refused to cooperate."
"Refused, meaning?"
Thump stared at Chin-Sun like she was slow. She didn't appreciate that. "He wouldn't go to sleep. He said he wasn't tired."
"I see how such an action is completely out of place."
"Yes," Thump nodded, apparently missing her sarcasm. "And then last week for show and tell he brought in a cassette of War of the Worlds and scared his classmates half to death. Two were so distraught they had to be sent home."
Biting her inner lip, Chin-Sun reminded herself to berate her father for giving something to a child that no child should have. Jin took ten minutes to assure Seung that none of the broadcast was actually real, that it was just a story, but he hadn't delivered the same lecture to his classmates.
"He's… well, he's a menace."
Chin-Sun noticed early on how present eye contact was in American culture. She had trouble adapting to that, so she used eye contact in the manner she did before coming here.
As a weapon.
"What was that," she asked softly.
"Uh," Thump backpedaled quickly, fiddling with her hands in her lap, "with his violent tendencies—"
"Violent tendencies? Has he been in fights with his teachers or students?"
"No, but—"
"It's just the War of the Worlds, then, that makes you say that. You can rest assured that I will tell him about appropriate things to bring in for show and tell. He isn't violent and he didn't mean to scare his classmates. When I took him home from school that day he was crying himself. He didn't know what he did wrong."
"Ms. Joon—"
"Mrs. Joon." Chin-Sun's voice rose.
"Mrs. Joon, I understand that you care about your son, but he is compromising the learning atmosphere for his classmates. I am sure he has attention deficit hyperactive disorder."
She blinks. "You are sure?"
"Yes. It's just a diagnosis and not an excuse. He has no right to act the way he does."
"Ah. So this is a medical diagnosis from a medical professional?"
"Well, no—"
"Then it is not a diagnosis."
"Well, I'm sure—"
"I highly doubt it. Seung's father left a few days before school began a month ago, and he's been very eager to make friends."
"Again, that's no excuse for his behavior—"
The five-year-old boy in question burst in the room, tripping over his feet. Chin-Sun knelt to the side and extended her hand, but he scrambled up, knocking it out of the way with the back of his head.
Thump's eyes narrowed. "I told you to wait outside."
"Umma, Umma, I jus' had it on when they're saying what the a-leen looked like. No bad dying parts like Grampa said." An unruly tuft of dark hair swept over his right eye. She brushed it away. "What's a mence?"
"Menace." Chin-Sun drew him to her side and sent Thump a cool stare. "I'll tell you later. I think we're done here."
Six days later, she had him toddling along with her on the way to an appointment with a local psychologist who specialized in young children's learning disabilities. His chubby fingers, sticky from the ice cream she'd just bought him, clung to hers.
"Do you remember what I told you?" she asked.
Letting go of her hand, he opened three of his fingers and counted on them. "Go to building, go to bathroom—uh…"
"Wash your hands," she reminded.
"Oh yeah!" He grinned proudly like he remembered it on his own.
"Now." She placed her hands on his shoulders and stopped him so they were facing each other. "What are you going to do?"
He raised both of his hands high in the air, grin building to each of his ears. Clap: "Go to building." Clap: "Go to bathroom." Clap: "Wash your hands."
Astonished, Chin-Sun forgot they needed to walk again until he started lumbering in front of her and burbling at the sky. She stepped forward and grabbed his hand again before his crooked path left the sidewalk and went into the street.
Rhythm helped him remember.
Chin-Sun thought. If she could pick up some extra hours at the bank, maybe she could afford a musical instrument for him.
They've arrived at the health clinic, and Sonny bolted inside, running right to the center of the room and jumping up and down. "In the building, to the bathroom! I have to go to the bathroom!"
A few of the people sitting down looked and laughed. Chin-Sun rushed in and shushed Seung before he could make any more of a scene. With one hand on his shoulder she quietly requested the location of the facilities from the receptionist.
When Seung was called, she spent most of his session indulging her imagination, to her quiet shame. (Imagination was her father's realm, not hers.) But at least it was for the benefit of her gifted son, who might be surrounded by several creative outlets—a drum set, a drawing table, some new toys maybe even including aliens; what harm could they do?—if the next few months were kind to them.
"Seung's mom?"
Seung's psychologist, a petite blonde woman named Kimberly Brownslow, chuckled sheepishly as they made eye contact. "It's part of our philosophy here. Center the relationships on the kids rather than the parents. I think it's a pleasant change for them."
"For my son, certainly." Chin-Sun rose. "He likes being listened to." She followed Dr. Brownslow to her office. They passed by a large, open area with lots of toys. Seung was strewn amongst them, eyes wild with delight. He waved at Chin-Sun. At least she thought he was waving at her until he bellowed, "HI, Der-Der Brown Nose!"
Harshly resisting the urge to cover her forehead and eyes with her hand, Chin-Sun turned to apologize to "Dr. Brownnose," who was laughing with a hand over her stomach.
"He's a trip," Dr. Brownslow chortled.
"That's… one way of putting it," Chin-Sun muttered. They arrived at a small room slightly cramped with furniture. Dr. Brownslow closed the door most of the way.
"Seung Joon is a perfectly healthy young man."
"No ADHD?"
Dr. Brownslow smiled. "No ADHD. He has a very short attention span, which is to be expected for his age. I can see why his animated nature may be a bit problematic at school, but if he can channel his extra energy into weekly therapy sessions here, I'm pretty sure there'll be improvement there."
"He's certainly taken to you," Chin-Sun replied. "I think that's a wonderful idea."
A wonderful idea, definitely, even if the drum kit had to wait because of it.
"So that's how a baby is born. Do you understand?"
Seung nodded. He's been unnaturally quiet since the accident and his resulting illness, opting for nonverbal responses in place of one-word answers and one-word answers in place of long-winded responses complete with digressions. The only reminder of his former self was his untidy black hair, flattening over his forehead and sticking out at the sides.
"Why did you want to know, anyway?"
"I heard the doctors say I almost died. So I thought, what's the opposite of that? And I wanted to know."
Pushing past that awful reminder of how serious his illness was, Mrs. Joon smiled. Her son was back.
"So what about my birth?" he asked.
"I was in labor for a day and a half, but you came very quickly after that—twenty minute delivery."
"Was my father there?"
"No."
"Was Grandpa Jin there?"
"Yes. Not in the delivery room, though. For that it was just you and me, Seung."
He bit his lip.
Wanting to ask him what was bothering him, Mrs. Joon bit back the question. If he was to regain his effusiveness, he'd need to do it by habit—by initiating the dialogue himself.
"Could you call me Sonny, like Grandpa Jin did when he came to visit me?"
Her mouth tightened.
He looked down.
"I suppose, if that's what you want, Seung. There's nothing wrong with your actual name, you know."
Nodding quickly, he said, "Oh, I know. It's just an add-on name, not a replacement."
"All right, Sonny."
It felt awkward, wrong. They fell into silence.
"Do you like your new drum kit?" she asked.
"Yeah."
Admittedly Mrs. Joon was a little disappointed in this lukewarm response. It might have taken her five years to finally get it for him, but she never lost track of the goal. Chalking it up to his weariness after the peritonitis (he was never intentionally ungrateful), she stayed silent and looked around their apartment. Some surfaces were dingy, while others had clear blankets of dust. Three dirty bowls and one dirty plate crowded the sink in the kitchen, and there was a pile of towels on the floor. Most days she came home too weary to clean, but she had to do better now that Seung's health was still a concern. He'd only returned from the hospital yesterday. The colorful balloons Jin had bought, still vibrant, grandly lined the forest green walls, reminding Mrs. Joon of her last conversation with him.
Seung stared at them thoughtfully. "Why did Grandpa Jin leave before I came home?"
"He had to go track down one of his alien leads in a different country." She rose and walked to the closet, pulling various cleaning products aside so she could get to the dust mop.
"Which country?"
"I don't know."
"He told me that I was meant for something bigger. Something that was hinted at in the comics. Did he leave because of that?"
Mrs. Joon took twenty or thirty seconds to consider a reply, figuring that her newly-quiet son wouldn't mind the silence. She needed to tell him the truth, she knew; Seung was too smart to miss a lie, just as she herself was when Jin fabricated all sorts of excuses as to why he was never home. "He left because I asked him to," she finally replied. "I fear that he's been influencing you too much at a time when you're too vulnerable, and you need to figure out what you want to do with your life without such bias present."
His head tilted to the side. Mrs. Joon wasn't used to this new son of hers. On any other day before the car accident he would've been angry.
She felt herself pale. What if this new attitude was her fault, just like his abdominal injury was?
"What's vulnerable, and what's bias?" he asked.
"Vulnerable is when you can't protect yourself, whether you can't protect yourself because of something in your mind or something physically restraining you."
"Like, feeling raw inside?" Seung was nothing if not intuitive.
"Exactly. And bias is when you have a belief that's skewed by your own personal interest."
"Oh! Like we learned in school, TV commercials are biased."
"Yes."
"Do you regret me?"
Mrs. Joon whirled around to face her son, who appeared nonchalant although she detected a vibe of sudden anxiety. He looked up to meet her eyes. "No, of course I don't," she snapped. "How can you even ask that?"
He bowed his head. "Sorry, Mom."
Mrs. Joon missed being called Umma. But along with the American nickname for himself, Seung has taken to using some American expressions. "Why do you move onto another question like that?" she demanded. "Another question that doesn't have anything to do with the question before? It's poor form."
Wincing, he hid his eyes. "Sorry," he repeated.
"Do you resent me for the accident?" she whispered.
His head jolted up.
Mrs. Joon blinked, as shocked by the question she uttered as he was.
"Mom, I couldn't ever resent you. I mean, I couldn't. It's not possible."
She went to sit next to him again, readjusting her chair to face his. "I'm sorry I raised my voice. It wasn't right."
He smiled. "It's okay, Mom."
Loosening her bun and twirling a strand of gray at her temple, Mrs. Joon tried in vain to escape her stress. There was too much to do, too much work, too much cooking, too much everything. Jumping at the sound of the door being opened, Mrs. Joon wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and ran into the living room to meet her son.
Secretly she was dreading it. She didn't know her son anymore. If it had just been the normal puberty process, voice deepening, growth spurt, a touch of angst, she'd be able to recognize him. But the cotton candy pink hair and identity crisis and vegetarian diet and holistic worldview and string of odd jobs and, above all, the hard and repeated insistence of calling him "Sonny—" in place of the gentle suggestion he'd offered toward the same end when he was ten—was just too much.
Jin has been pestering her for a visit, too, and she was almost tempted to accept, even if it meant more of those inane comics he always brought with him. She would love to see the look on his face at what Sonny's become in his teenage years.
But this time Mrs. Joon hadn't neglected to think of Jin's most striking characteristic, his ability to surprise her no matter the circumstances. The only constant in his life was constant change.
So for that reason her ban on him remained. Sonny was even more vulnerable right now than he was five years ago during his illness. More vulnerable to everything: ideas, mood swings, fashion trends, and the remote possibility of extraterrestrial life. He changed his mind every minute, it seemed. As much as she loved her son, she sometimes wondered if he was insane.
She was only certain of one thing: if Jin came, he'd take this teetering Sonny and mold him into a younger version of himself, exclusively following his desires and dreams, leaving no time for anything else, much less anything Sonny would decide he'd want to do if his mind were to remain his own. If Jin came, she would quarrel with him, Sonny would take his side, and then he'd leave just like Jin and Brandon.
Mrs. Joon reminded herself that she had to be sensible about that. As a straight-A student, Sonny would certainly be attending college. He would certainly be leaving in three years, if not sooner. There was no question that he was capable of graduating early. But Sonny only put his mind to things he was absolutely willing to do, and a diploma at seventeen might or might not have been on his radar.
Sonny popped up right in front of her, close enough for her to see all the pimples he agonized over daily and the black and blond streaks of hair his clumsy DIY dye job had missed. (Why he felt the need to bleach his hair in the first place, she would never know.) Surprise manifested on his face as he realized he was right about to bump into her. Then, with a sudden big grin, he raised his hand and waved. "Hi, Mom!"
"Good afternoon, Sonny."
He laughed. "Why are you always so formal?"
"Maybe you're too casual."
Shaking his head, Sonny said, "Oh, no. We're not having this argument today. I wanted to ask you something."
It was the friendliest he'd been to her in two weeks. Mrs. Joon knew she should've been suspicious.
"So," he shuffled his feet, smile growing, "there's someone I want you to meet."
"A friend?"
"Well, we're kind of dating."
Mrs. Joon supposed that that was what fifteen-year-olds did, although it took her a bit by surprise.
"Could you set up an extra place for dinner? I could help cook if that's what you need," he added quickly.
"You're so helpful lately."
"I know." He scratched his ear and looked to the side. "I'm trying to be. We haven't exactly been getting along for a while. I want to help out."
Biting back a smile, Mrs. Joon went into the kitchen and pulled some plates from the drying rack. "You're already doing a lot of chores, Sonny."
He bounded in after her, wrapping his bony arms around her and tucking his head over her shoulder. "I know, but I love you."
Mrs. Joon tried to reach for a serving spoon. "I can't work like this, you know."
"I know. You're in the straightjacket of affection! The Bermuda Triangle of Devotion! The galaxy of gladn—"
She swung around to face him, swatting him lightly on the shoulder with the spoon. "If you want dinner to be ready by the time you bring your date around, go. Shoo."
He giggled and ran away.
Smiling, she touched the surface of the Gyeranjjim to see if it was cool enough to slice. Nodding in satisfaction, she separated the egg casserole into three portions and dropped each slice onto a plate. Gyeranjjim wasn't one of her favorite dishes, and mostly she'd made it to accommodate Sonny's new diet.
But, to her surprise, she found she was actually looking forward to this evening. In particular, Sonny's bringing someone home. Even being the paragon of outgoing, Sonny had trouble making friends due to his eccentricity.
And… well, today might involve someone a little more than a friend, but—
Sonny's voice interrupted her train of thought, so Mrs. Joon grabbed two of the plates and walked them to the dining room table.
"Mom!" Sonny chuckled. "Mom, let me do that. Come over here and meet Paul!"
Her eyes darted up. She had to see it to believe it: her pink-haired son hand-in-hand with a boy with shaggy, dark blond hair.
Sonny clapped his hands and held them together for a few seconds. "You two sit. I'll grab the food and stuff."
The newcomer, Paul, inclined his head at Mrs. Joon with a wan smile. "I'm so glad to meet you. Sonny's told me so much about you."
She nodded and tugged her lips upward in a smile, back to not looking at him. "Excuse me," she muttered, turning around and heading to the kitchen to have a word with Sonny.
But he leapt out just as she trudged in, and it seemed they were destined to pass through this awkward evening without any private communication until afterward.
"Do you go to school with my son, Paul?" Mrs. Joon asked quietly.
"No, I go to East." His eyes went down to the plate in front of him. "This looks delicious. What—" he looked at Sonny. "What is it, exactly?"
"Gyeranjjim. Made from egg. Breakfast for dinner! Mom is an excellent cook." He sent a glowing glance her way.
Mrs. Joon sliced off a bite of food with a fork, feeling his eyes. By the time she's gathered the resolve to return his eye contact, he was engaging Paul in a conversation about helium balloons.
Forty-three minutes later, Paul rose. "Good meeting you, Mrs. Joon. I'll see you around, I guess?"
She nodded. "Always happy to have guests," she added, out of politeness.
Sonny stood, too. "You're gonna be at school tomorrow, right?" he asked, sauntering over to his side of the table.
Paul nodded, adjusting his collar.
"Good." Grinning, Sonny pecked his lips. "Can't wait for Chemistry."
Retreating to the kitchen, Mrs. Joon saw her gangly son trundle to the front door with Paul, his hand on his back. She leaned against the counter and placed her head in her hands.
Sonny's light footsteps approached. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Are you sure? Right now you look... and something seemed off at dinner—"
Mrs. Joon chuckled. "Something seemed off at dinner. My son, who brought another boy home, says something seemed off at dinner."
"I—I didn't think it would matter to you."
"And you didn't think to warn me." Thinking back to all of the changes Sonny's undergone this year—the hair, the awful tofu burgers, the moodiness, the firing from three jobs—her tone darkened. "Why were you acting so nice earlier? Was it to butter me up?"
"No… I just wanted to be nice."
Mrs. Joon didn't believe him. That wasn't the way the world worked. "Nice enough to try to let this slide by, not nice enough to tell me, 'Oh, hi, Mom, so I'm into guys, just giving you time to prepare for that so you won't gape like a fool when he comes around,'" she continued unsympathetically. "You're trying to get a rise out of me."
"I'm not, Mom." His voice cracked.
Mrs. Joon didn't know whether it was puberty or angst, but she wasn't done. "Tell me honestly, do you do these things to upset me?"
Silence.
Some random thumping sounded from the floor of the apartment above.
"I get good grades at school. I don't talk to Grandpa. What do you want from me?" He scoffed. "I upset you? Well that's just great because you upset me." His footsteps began again, going quieter and quieter, followed by a vehement door slam.
Head back in hands. Migraine starting. That didn't go as planned.
Sonny was at the front door knocking again before she was adequately prepared. She opened it a crack. "It isn't ready yet."
"Five minutes?" he asked, eyebrows disappearing into his purple hair.
"Yes, and this time don't come back in four."
He offered her a grin. "I'll just call a couple of people, then."
"Okay." Mrs. Joon shut the door and grabbed the dragon centerpiece out of the "Seollal" box.
Two of the claws fell back whence they came.
Puzzled, not believing it, Mrs. Joon lifted them up again. This was what she got for paying one hundred and twenty dollars for a decoration?
That did it.
No more shopping on the Internet, no matter how loud and how often Sonny sung its praises.
Heading outside their apartment to get Sonny, Mrs. Joon stopped when she noticed he was already on the phone.
"Olivia? Is Rick there, too? Yeah? Put the phone on speaker. Yes, I've arrived safely. Yes, at my mother's house right now." Pause. "Twenty-five percent guilt trip, seventy-five percent I need a break. I got out of Professor Singer's class for the weekend." Another pause. "So what? I don't like him." A third pause. "Heh, yeah, won't be 'singing' his praises on the evaluation, yeah. So I'm doing well, been meaning to—" he turned around and saw Mrs. Joon at the door. "Never mind, I have to go. Rick, you there? I love you both. Hugs and kisses. Be back soon." He hung up, smiling.
"Both of them?" Mrs. Joon asked, waving him into the house. His black alien-face combat boots clomped mutinously on the linoleum, making it hard to hear his response. Thankfully it was just the monosyllabic:
"Yeah."
"Just in case this hasn't registered with you yet, I am fine with your being attracted to men. You do not need to date the woman to date the man, too."
"What?" He threw her a quizzical expression. Then—"Oh! I know that. I like them equally, believe it or not."
Mrs. Joon pinches the bridge of her nose, shakes her head, and smiles. "You like giving new meaning to the term 'equal opportunity.'"
"Yep!" He cracked a grin. "So, has it been five minutes already?"
"No. I just discovered that the new dragon is broken."
"What? Oh no!" His eyes fell on it. He picked it up.
A third claw fell off the main piece.
"Well, then, it's time for some creative license." Sonny hoisted the papier mache sculpture over his shoulder and took it to the dining table. He did the same for the three loose claws, placing them six inches in front of the dragon. Straightening and turning, he beamed at Mrs. Joon. "See? It's like he's reaching under the table and back up again. Magic. It's better this way."
Crossing her arms and surveying this sight, Mrs. Joon nodded slowly. "Yes. You're right. I admire your artistry."
"Aw, mom," he ducked his head. "So, did you hear back from Grandpa Jin? Can he make it?"
"Tomorrow."
"Yay!" Sonny did a jig, or what started as one until he tumbled into a nearby chair. "Thanks for inviting him."
Mrs. Joon shrugged. "My quarrel with him is old."
"I really do appreciate it, Mom."
"Yes, well, I love you, and I know you love him."
"Ah—" he shook his finger at her and laughed. "I know you love the old fellow too, but you just don't want to say it. And you don't have to, because I know."
"How nice for you."
"See? You didn't disagree with what I said. I love you, too."
A thought suddenly occurred to her. But it was too serious to voice on so nice a night. Mrs. Joon was about to put it out of her mind until Sonny asked, "What is it?"
"You never once asked me where your father was. It's—it's only natural for a child to want to know. Then again, you're anything but normal."
"Yeah, and what you wouldn't give for a son who isn't a headache all the time," he teased, gently taking her arm and turning her around. She hadn't even heard him approach, a miracle considering those clunky boots of his. "I never needed to know about him. He didn't want to stick around, fine, that's his loss. I barely remember him, anyway."
Mrs. Joon curled her arms around him. For several minutes they stayed in the embrace, and it was like he was an infant all over again, quiet and doll-like in his serenity.
Right before he started his wails, anyway, giving all signs of hating her. He'd grown out of that, grown out of his pimples and into the lanky body that looked so out of place when he was a teenager.
He's changed so much.
Suddenly her eyes flew open. Those words rang false.
Sonny—her peculiar, indiscriminate Sonny—has long, has always been paving the way for himself and people like him, the nonconformists. The people who could offer an uncommon but pinpoint-precise commentary on the world, seeing it for what it was instead of what people thought it was.
He hasn't changed at all.
She has.
"I'm sorry for all those times I was a bad mother to you," Mrs. Joon murmured.
Sonny pulled back. "What times?"
"To begin with, Pau—"
"That was a misunderstanding. He shook his head, acute hurt spreading across his face. "You've never been a bad mom. Don't say that about yourself."
Finding the sentimentality wearing, Mrs. Joon forced herself to be patient for the millionth time over twenty years. "All mothers make mis—"
But he bent down and kissed her cheek, cutting her off mid-sentence. "You're the best mother I could have ever imagined."
Mrs. Joon felt moisture start at the corners of her eyes. It's been ten years since she allowed herself to cry, ten years since she was standing at what she thought was her son's deathbed.
But here he was alive, more alive than most people on the planet. And if he wanted to follow in his grandfather's footsteps, she was confident that he could make that choice wisely, him knowing what was best for him.
It had taken her a lot of time to realize that he always had known.
Forcing a temporary smile to her lips, Mrs. Joon looked back up at Sonny. "Gyeranjjim's in the kitchen."
Matching her grin, he declared, "You're the best," and headed there.
The best mother he could have ever imagined, he said.
Given that his imagination was even bigger than his heart, that said quite a lot.
Mrs. Joon sat, letting her own imagination swirl over their lives. A good career and supportive partner for him, a seamless retirement for her, maybe even several boyfriends who were actually decent people. Maybe even several at the same time, since that's what the kids were doing these days. Mrs. Joon was enough of an open-minded individual.
With a son like Sonny, she had to be.
And no matter what happened, she knew, they'd always have each other.
First of all, I need to thank RebelBookWorm, since the idea for this fic arose in our correspondence yesterday. Writing five-year-old Sonny was… well, just about as much fun as I've ever had writing, and it never would've happened had it not been for her.
I'm sure not all school psychologists are bad, but they are rather notorious for… eh, not being helpful. I've run into that a couple of times myself, as have some of my friends. Not just school counselors, either. One doctor apparently saw fit to refer to an autistic kid as 'retarded.' It makes my blood boil.
Why Paul for the name of Sonny's boyfriend? Two reasons. One: Paul McCartney. *swooooon* Two: Llamas with Hats.
Use of the term "unintended" to describe an unwanted suitor was borrowed from a delightful movie I just saw, Love and Friendship.
I tried to incorporate as much canon as I could here from MED and other games, and I tried to stay true to what I've written about this pair in other stories to eliminate confusion. If anything seems particularly out of place (or, hey, particularly in place; I'm no hater of good news), please let me know in a review. I love those!