A Place to Call Home
Watching the head maid walk away to fetch my bowl, I fell into a moment of quiet reflection. I had always thought it was only natural. After all, I was merely an adopted son—an outsider with no blood ties. I believed it was presumptuous of me to intrude upon a family meal. But then,
My godfather gestured toward a spot at the table. My mother smiled. "That’s right, Julian. Come and sit here."
"Brother, hurry!" Freya beckoned with her hand.
"..."
I slowly stepped back from the cradle and stood before the table. It still felt awkward. Even in the 21st century, such experiences had been rare for me. During my days as a surgical resident, eating alone was the norm, and it was no different after I became a fellow. Especially a dinner table shared with a family—when was the last time I’d had one?
"Please, sit, Young Master." The head maid had returned and placed a fourth bowl on the table. I sat down slowly, picked up my spoon, and took the first bite. It was a dish I had made myself, yet the taste felt strangely different.
"How is it?" my godfather asked.
"...It’s delicious."
"You’re the one who made it," he chuckled.
"Julian."
"Yes, Godfather?"
"Move your belongings out of the annex."
"...Pardon?"
Was I being kicked out? Why, in this atmosphere? Was this my Last Supper? But my godfather’s intentions were far from that.
"We should be eating together like this every day, and it makes no sense to keep calling you from the annex. And..." He exchanged a glance with my mother. Having reached a silent agreement, he spoke again. "Let’s change that stiff way you address us. How long do you intend to keep calling me 'Godfather'? Call me 'Father' from now on. It sounds so formal, it makes me feel like I’m going to choke."
I stared at him blankly. That was, in effect, a declaration of adoption. Of course, he was already my legal guardian, but this was a proclamation that he would treat me as his own flesh and blood, just like Freya. When I remained silent, he spoke calmly, as if urging me to answer.
"If you don't want to, never mind."
"No..." I shook my head. "I would be... grateful to do so."
"Good."
"Then, should I call you 'Head of the House'..."
"You aren't at the age to be calling me that," he chuckled. "Perhaps when you're older and we're in public, but for now, call me Father."
"...Understood."
"Good."
He picked up his spoon again. Freya and my mother followed suit, and I did the same. The clinking of cutlery filled the air. I took a bite of the risotto. The creaminess and the softness of the seaweed spread through my mouth. It was the taste I had expected, yet somehow, it felt unfamiliar.
Is this, too... the grammar of a 'misunderstanding' story?
The thought crossed my mind. Perhaps this was the narrative of a protagonist being accepted by his family. The kind of development where, instead of running around the country shouting that I want to call my father 'Father,' I simply do my job, and those around me misunderstand my intentions and accept me. If I framed it that way, it was easy to process without overthinking. But today, that interpretation didn't quite sit right.
...Is it really okay to read it that way?
Can a relationship like 'family' be built on a misunderstanding? That uncomfortable question began to dominate my thoughts.
***
My past life had always warned me: there is no such thing as perfect, selfless kindness in this world, and every act of benevolence can be interpreted as a calculated transaction.
In that dry, cynical world, I learned to be cold. I learned how not to expect anything, how not to show my weaknesses, and how to identify the bill that would inevitably follow a favor. And this world I had transmigrated into was no different. Nobles kept each other in check, and commoners struggled to survive. It was a world where people devoured one another even behind the walls, and where kindness was repaid with malice. It was a world where there was no reason to discard the cynicism I had learned in my past life.
That was why I had learned to interpret their kindness through the lens of a 'misunderstanding.' When I was just a godson, that was enough.
But adoption...
It’s family. Family shouldn't be that kind of relationship. It shouldn't be built on a misunderstanding. At least, that’s what I believe. Because the moment even my family becomes a lie, I am destroying the only place where I can take off my mask and rest.
What should I do...
The risotto was cooling. A thin film was beginning to form on the surface of the cream. ...As I thought, it’s better to say it before the adoption becomes official.
They were misunderstanding who I was. I wasn't such a noble person. Not all my actions were for the sake of this family. My goodwill stemmed from a sense of duty as a protagonist, not because I particularly loved them. Above all, I had been using their goodwill to my own advantage. Therefore, I shouldn't become their family. That went beyond deceiving these people; it carried the risk of my own false mask becoming my permanent reality.
"Godfather."
"I told you to call me Father. Never mind. Let's hear what you have to say."
"I am not the person you think I am."
"And how do you think I see you?"
"I am..." My throat tightened. If I revealed the truth, they would surely reject me. But it was better than having it fall apart in the worst possible way after the adoption. I steeled my heart and opened my mouth.
"Everything I have done for the Nihilit family was done solely to secure my position within the house."
I squeezed my eyes shut. The dining table became chillingly silent. I waited for his reaction. At last, he chuckled.
"Come to think of it, you’ve never once stopped watching my reactions since you came to this house." He stopped eating. "So, how much of it was just 'calculated behavior'?"
"..."
"Was giving me malaria medicine and nursing me through the night also calculated?"
"..."
"Is devising this dish for Linier also calculated?"
"..."
"And on Freya’s plate, who has no influence in this family..." His eyes rested on her bowl. "...Is the fact that carrots are removed only from her bowl also calculated?"
"..."
He let out a deep sigh. "To think you were festering like this. It’s all my fault for being inadequate. I only realized it when you brought out only three bowls, leaving your own portion behind."
"No. I was just acting as an outsider, which is only natural..."
"Don't hide behind the word 'calculated behavior'."
As soon as he said that, my fingertips gripping the spoon turned white. His gaze swept over my risotto, which had no toppings. "Julian. To my eyes, you look like a child who retreats in advance to avoid getting hurt, who gives up before being rejected, yet whose hands cannot stop themselves from helping."
Then, he took the abalone topping from his own bowl and placed it on mine. "That is why I am trying to set things right, even now."
"Set things right, you say..."
"I know it sounds like an excuse, but I knew things were awkward between you and your mother. But I thought if I intervened rashly, things would only get more tangled. I thought you would adapt on your own." He pointed to the abalone on my risotto. "But even after four years, nothing ever went onto your bowl."
"..."
"If it were just calculation, you’d do it in moderation. You’d show just enough, keep just enough distance, and use us just enough. A smart guy like you wouldn't be unable to grasp that 'moderation'."
He met my eyes. In his gaze, I saw pity, guilt... and affection. It was the look of a biological father. "But you couldn't do 'moderation.' Not with the nursing, not with the cooking, not even with a single piece of carrot. Everything was either excessively sincere or excessively distant. There was no middle ground."
"..."
"You’re young, so you might not know, but that isn't called 'calculated behavior.' Calculation is about staying in the middle."
He placed his hand on my shoulder. "What you’ve been doing... that’s the kind of behavior one shows to family."
Tap, tap.
"This adoption isn't about creating a new place for you. It’s just moving what you’ve been putting on my bowl for the last ten years onto your own."
"..."
"So stop with the 'Godfather' nonsense and call me Father."
"That is..."
"If it were just calculation, you'd do as you're told. Can you not even manage that in moderation?"
At that moment, my mother, who had been listening quietly, intervened. "Dear." She spoke as if to scold him. "We are eating. Why are you lecturing him and making him lose his appetite? And... Julian acting this way is all our fault."
"Ahem." He cleared his throat and drank from his water glass. My mother’s gaze turned to me. Her eyes wandered over the abalone-liver risotto before slowly meeting mine. Her hesitation was evident. It was the silence of a noblewoman struggling to choose the right words between her pride and her regret as a mother. Finally, she spoke.
"Julian."
"...Yes, Mother."
"I, too..." Her voice trailed off. She toyed with the stem of her wine glass. "I should have accepted you when you reached out, but my old feelings got in the way, and I put up a wall. I wasn't being an adult."
"..."
"From now on... I will try. So you, too..." She paused for a moment and gave a faint smile. "If you need anything, please just act like a spoiled child. It’s late, but I want to see that."
It was a clumsy confession. She was trying to restrain her emotions as befitted a noblewoman, but her voice was trembling slightly. I chewed over the raw emotions they were sending my way, and then, I let out my own.
"...Thank you, Mother, Father."
She nodded slightly. I felt like my throat would choke up if I said anything more, so I answered briefly and bowed my head. Clink. The sound of cutlery hitting the plates filled the silent dining room. Just then, I made eye contact with Freya, who had been rolling her eyes back and forth, sensing the sudden shift in atmosphere.
"Um, Brother?"
"Yes?"
"I’m sorry, too."
Freya had nothing to be sorry for. So, at her sudden apology, the eyes of both my parents and myself turned to her.
"...What are you talking about?"
At my question, she fidgeted and avoided my gaze. "I... I’m sorry. I just felt like I had to say it..."
She seemed to sense that the situation was serious, clutching her spoon tightly with her small hands. It seemed she just felt she had to join in since our parents were apologizing. It wasn't like we were singing a round of apologies. Seeing the ten-year-old girl’s social strategy of just jumping on the bandwagon without knowing the reason, the tight tension finally snapped.
"...Thank you."
My mother burst into a small laugh and stroked Freya’s hair. "Yes, our daughter is the kindest."
"Hehe." Freya looked proud. She didn't even know why she was being praised, but she seemed happy nonetheless. My father scratched his nose and picked up his spoon. "Ahem. Let’s end the talk here. The food is getting cold. Let’s eat."
The clinking sounds filled the dining room once more. I took a large spoonful of the cooling risotto. The flavor of the cream and the texture of the soft abalone spread through my mouth. Only then did I realize why the first bite had felt so strange. It was because the temperature was clearly different from the kimbap or sandwiches I used to swallow alone in the cold duty room of my past life. I chewed that warmth slowly, for a very long time.
***
During the meal, my father, who had given me all his abalone, frowned. By passing all the butter-grilled abalone to me, the element that masked the bitter taste of the liver was gone. After taking a few bites of the risotto, he asked me,
"Julian. Why is it that only my bowl has such a greenish tint?"
"Godfather—no, Father—I added more ingredients for the sake of your health."
"...I think it would have been fine to be a little more 'calculated' with this."
"How could I do that to my beloved Father?"
In the East, abalone liver was a precious ingredient, so it was love, after all. It was definitely not just dumping the leftover ingredients on the head of the house.
"...I see."
He nodded with a wry expression at my words.