My Mom's the Best (8)
It's hard for me to fully grasp the heartache behind a parent's question like that—asking if their child regrets being born to them. At best, I can only imagine it like pouring love into game characters you call your daughters. Claiming to understand the real, boundless love parents give their kids would be nothing short of arrogant.
The voice that asked it trembled faintly, as if Mom was bracing for my answer even while desperately waiting for it. It was hard to believe it belonged to the same woman who'd just been roaring like a tiger moments ago. How much anxiety and guilt must she have carried, just to voice that question in front of a daughter who might resent her? And that unease surely stemmed from her daughter acting strangely lately—someone different from the usual Ban Do-young.
In other words, me, the guy possessing the original heroine from Half Half Island. I'm the one who sparked this whole mess.
“...”
“...”
Mom's feet fidgeted, as if the silence was unbearable. Her right foot climbed over the left, grinding down, then the left crossed over the right in a pointless tug-of-war. It was a clear sign her anxiety had seeped from her voice into her body.
Shit, what do I do?
She'd planted dreams in me, given me hope that I could do it, pushed me to change even my natural left-handedness—and yet, in the end, she'd abandoned our path together. She was giving me permission to vent all the resentment I'd harbored for running away like that. But sadly, the daughter listening couldn't give her that answer. Because sitting there wasn't Cheok Jun-sook's real daughter, Ban Do-young—it was Do-young from another world.
Should I just stay quiet? No, dodging the question would be like silently agreeing with her fears.
Or act like the carefree Ban Do-young and say I don't resent her at all? That might work in normal cases, but for Cheok Jun-sook, my "mom," it could backfire. By the time I possessed her, Ban Do-young was already living as a right-hander. If she'd switched back to left-handed while Mom was away, Dad, Sa-hyung, and Hye-rang—my close friends—would've noticed something off when they saw me using my right hand.
But Mom's sharp eyes had already clocked that my right hand wasn't as trained as the original's. Any shallow comfort or white lie would be see-through to Ban Do-young's mom. Luckily, she wasn't suspicious of my existence yet. But if these mismatches in shared memories kept piling up, worst case, I could get found out before the story even hits its finale.
I need to act like the real Ban Do-young would.
Like something the real her would think or do—something in the overlap of Mom's and Ban Do-young's memories. That was the only way to hide that I was a possessor and smooth this over.
I'm Ban Do-young... the real Ban Do-young. Chanting my name didn't help. There were people with the same name in my old world anyway. Why call myself "fake" and the fictional character with my name "real"?
To act like Ban Do-young, Mom's daughter... I need a reference around here.
Before Mom turned back to me, I hurriedly scanned the room for clues to Ban Do-young-like behavior. Posters of some boy group I didn't recognize on the wall, mascot dolls of unknown design on the bed, Papakatsu pizza collab glasses merch on the desk, an overpriced coffee franchise tumbler bought on a whim from Carrot Market. Nope. Nothing YOUNG or MZ about it. I needed something that overlapped with Mom's memories.
Time was running out. Before she took this silence as agreement, I had to find the best answer in that overlap.
Mom... Ban Do-young's overlap would be...
My head naturally turned to the drawer holding Ban Do-young's elementary school records, just like Mom had. But my eyes went further back, to an even older photo. Younger than the third-grade one—maybe first or second grade. In it, Ban Do-young wasn't holding a shiny gold medal or even a semifinal plaque; she was just crying her eyes out. Probably frustrated because forcing her left-handed self to use her right hand meant she couldn't perform at her best, leading to a One Piece-style snotty meltdown that could wake the dead.
And beside that crying Ban Do-young stood Mom, a bit younger then. In the photo, she was smiling gently, hugging the child who'd lost her temper, stroking her messy hair as if to say it was all okay.
“...”
Following the Mom in the photo, I buried the face of my anxious, guilt-ridden mom against my chest.
“D-Do-young...?”
“Probably not as comfy since I'm still smaller than you, Mom.”
-Swish
With my face pressed to her chest, leaving Mom flustered, I raised my left hand and slowly stroked her loose black hair. This was a job for the left hand familiar to the Ban mother-daughter duo, not my accustomed right.
“Do-young...”
As Ban Do-young's left hand caressed her hair, Mom's trembling body softened. She knew exactly where this gesture came from.
“Felt like I might burst into tears like back then, so I recreated it. How's it feel—convincing?”
“...You've really grown a ton. Bigger than I was in high school, even.”
“Hohoho, to that extent? Sister Ban Do-young's future looks bright.”
Do Ha-min, you jealous punk.
“But why all of a sudden...”
I picked up the framed photo from back then and showed it to her.
“First or second grade? That pic of us like this.”
“...Around winter break of first grade, maybe. The day you lost in the first round and came crying.”
Just as I thought. This Ban Do-young had indeed cried over a bad performance. Probably one of her most embarrassing black history moments she'd rather forget.
“Mom, remember this?”
“Of course. You ran to me bawling after losing the tournament, and Dad said he'd hang the photo in the dojo. You screamed bloody murder not to.”
“Dad's a total evil Goroshi enthusiast.”
“He didn't actually hang it, though.”
It was a tournament where she hadn't even snagged a certificate, but just seeing the framed moment brought it all rushing back for Mom. She recounted the details like they were happening right now.
“When you first clung to me crying, I bet you were terrified. I'd trained you so hard, and you dropped in the first round—probably thought you'd get in huge trouble at home.”
“Y-You thought that?”
“Yeah. But I changed my mind quick. 'Cause you hugged me like that and stroked my hair, saying it was okay.”
“...”
“How could I not be thrilled? Even when I came home a total failure, Mom still liked me. Not because I was good at kendo, but because I was her daughter... That's what I thought.”
Mom's smile never left her face, even as she soothed her crying kid. To me—who'd never borne or raised a child—that didn't look like a heartless parent abandoning a talentless daughter.
“And the great Ban Do-young could never regret being your daughter.”
“But... it doesn't change that I made your childhood tough and eventually abandoned you like a coward. That's a clear wrong I did to you, and if you resent me, I'd have to accept it.”
“So you want me to hate you outright? Want me to regret learning kendo from you my whole life?”
“No, never... How could I? You're my precious daughter...”
“Then I'll say it's okay, just like you did when I lost that tournament and came home. That should do it.”
-Tap tap
I patted Mom's back with Ban Do-young's left hand. It felt a bit awkward, but not like the hand itself was reluctant or scared. Probably the original Ban Do-young would've said something similar. Even without face-to-face talks, the Ban Do-young of this world must resemble me a little.
“Really...? Just like that? I gave up teaching you kendo... and you're fine with it?”
“It's not like I have to learn kendo only from you.”
She already knew. Mom and Dad's relationship was the best textbook for guessing the original plot. There'd be plenty more to learn and mimic from them going forward.
“Right now, I've got a bunch of other stuff I wanna learn from you besides kendo. You will teach me, right, Master?”
“...Of course. As much as you want.”
Mom pressed her reddened eyes, winking with a smile.
“Tell me—what do you want to learn from Mom besides kendo?”
“Hmm... hehe.”
Looking at Mom's face now bright with relief, I grinned and said,
“How to wrap guys around your finger?”