Wicked Fox (Gumiho #1)(23)

“Who else do we know who lives there?” Halmeoni clicked her tongue at him. Usually it would be enough to make him stand down, but he held his ground and crossed his arms.

“Why would you be sending her anything?”

“Take them, and be polite,” Halmeoni said without looking up.

“Just because she’s your daughter doesn’t mean you have to take care of her. She has a husband for that.”

“Don’t speak that way about your mother,” Halmeoni said, this time with enough iron to make Jihoon stop arguing.

“She’s not my mother anymore,” Jihoon mumbled, but he hauled up the two containers. Outside, thick angry clouds gathered, matching his dark mood.

As Jihoon trudged toward the bus stop, he realized he’d forgotten his jacket. He glanced up the road and decided against returning for it. The heat of his anger was enough to ward off the chill in the air. He reached the main road as an approaching bus stopped with a huff of lung-clogging exhaust.

Dropping into a seat at the back, Jihoon balanced the containers precariously on his knees. Every time the bus bounced over a pothole, they jumped and slammed on his thighs, building his aggravation.

Glaring out the window, Jihoon tried to think of anything but the woman who’d left him. So of course she was exactly where his mind traveled.

He remembered two things from the first few years of his life: hearing his parents’ long screaming matches and knowing they didn’t love him. After each fight, his father turned to the bottle. His mother turned to her own bitterness. His early life was full of harsh words and quick slaps for anything from crying too loud to being too quiet. When he was four, his father was arrested. His mother immediately filed for divorce and moved them into the small apartment above Halmeoni’s restaurant.

Living with Halmeoni had been like finally feeling the sun after a lifetime underground. She made sure he was clean and fed. Gave him toys and clothes. But when Jihoon’s mother asked for spending money, Halmeoni handed her an apron and told her to earn it.

When Jihoon was almost five, he was sitting in the kitchen during the dinner rush. He remembered the smell of jjigae simmering on the stove, savory and salty, with just enough spice to sting his nostrils.

Halmeoni sang an old-fashioned trot song from the radio, and Jihoon followed along, butchering the lyrics. But his effort made Halmeoni laugh and it encouraged him to sing louder.

Their song joined the clatter of the kitchen and the shouts of voices in the dining room.

His mother came into the kitchen, her tray full of dirty dishes. Her hair escaped its rubber band to fall into her flushed face, sauce smeared on her sweaty cheek.

Jihoon thought she looked beautiful.

Overjoyed to see her, he jumped up and ran over.

She tripped as he clutched her knees, and the tray slipped from her hands to crash on the floor. A wayward shard of glass bounced up and cut Jihoon’s cheek.

“Jihoon-ah!” she screamed. “Why are you getting in the way? You shouldn’t be back here.” She’d grabbed him, spanking him in punishment. The pain of her palm on his bottom was numbed by his fear.

His tears fell in streams, stinging the cut on his cheek with its salt, but he didn’t make a sound. He’d learned in his short life how to cry silently or risk a harsher punishment.

“Yoori-ya,” Halmeoni chastised.



“No!” Jihoon’s mother swung toward Halmeoni. “I am sick of living like this because of him.” She directed an accusing finger toward Jihoon, who had flopped down to cry among the spilled food and broken dishes.

“If he hadn’t come around, I wouldn’t have married that man. I wouldn’t be living like this. I wasn’t born this pathetic!”

She stormed out, leaving Halmeoni to clean up the kitchen and Jihoon. A week later she met her new husband.

The memory left a sour taste in Jihoon’s mouth. It wasn’t one he took out often, but it was one he couldn’t quite erase. For a while, he’d wondered if that was when he’d lost her. Maybe if he hadn’t been so clumsy. If he hadn’t gotten in her way. Then she wouldn’t have left.

Jihoon glanced out the window. The streets became wider, the buildings taller. The bus crossed the Han River, entering the opulence and established wealth of Apgujeong.

Jihoon hated this part of town. Not because it was more developed or cleaner. Not because it flaunted its wealth so blatantly that international hit songs had been written about it. Because it was her part of town. The place she went when she’d abandoned him.

Jihoon stood in front of his mother’s front door for four minutes before he mustered the courage to ring the bell.

The eye of the camera glared at him. It made him feel like an intruder. He averted his face, afraid he’d be rejected before the door even opened.

“Who is it?” The question rang out, cheerful and bright.

“Delivery,” he mumbled.

The door beeped as it opened, a happy trio of chirps.

She wore a bright yellow dress. Her hair was pulled into a short ponytail. A ruffled pink apron decorated her waist. And she held a sleepy toddler in her arms.

“Jihoon-ah.” His mother spoke high with surprise.

He stared at the toddler, who blinked at him with curious eyes, his small hand fisted in the collar of her dress.

“Delivery,” Jihoon repeated, holding up the containers with aching arms.