Moving the Bowl
Watching the head maid leave to fetch my bowl, I fell into a quiet reverie. I had always thought it only natural. I was merely an adopted son, after all—an outsider with no shared blood. Intruding on a family dinner was presumptuous. And yet...
"Why are you just standing there? Sit down." My godfather pointed to a spot at the table. Mother smiled warmly. "Yes, Julian. Come and sit." "Hurry, Brother!" Freya gestured eagerly.
"..." I slowly stepped away from the cradle and approached the table. It still felt incredibly awkward. Even in the twenty-first century, such experiences had been rare for me. During my surgical residency, eating alone was a daily routine, and nothing changed after I became a fellow. A dinner table shared with family, of all things... How long has it been? My memories were hazy.
"Please sit, Young Master." The head maid returned before I knew it and set down a fourth bowl. I slowly took my seat. Picking up my spoon, I took my first bite. It was a dish I had made myself, yet it tasted strangely different.
"How is it?" my godfather asked. "...It is delicious." "Didn't you make it yourself?" He chuckled softly.
"Julian." "Yes, Godfather." "Pack your things and move out of the annex." "...Pardon?" Don't tell me I'm being kicked out? In this atmosphere, why? Was this my Last Supper? But my godfather's intentions were quite different.
"We must eat together like this every day, so we cannot have you summoned from the annex every single time. And..." My godfather exchanged a look with Mother. Having reached a silent agreement with her, he spoke again.
"Let's do something about that stiff title of yours. How long do you plan on calling me 'Godfather'? Call me 'Father' from now on. Hearing you say 'Godfather' is so rigid I feel like I'll get indigestion." I stared at him blankly. "..." Those words practically meant he was adopting me. Of course, he was already my guardian. But this declaration was no different from announcing that he would treat me as his own flesh and blood, an heir to the family just like Freya. As I stared in a daze, he spoke calmly, as if prompting an answer.
"If you don't want to, just say so." "No..." I shook my head. "I will... gratefully do so." "Good." "Then, if I call you 'Lord Patriarch'..." "You are not at an age to call me 'Patriarch,'" he chuckled. "Perhaps in public once you are grown, but for now, call me 'Father.'" "...Understood." "Good." He picked up his spoon again. Freya and Mother did the same. I followed suit.
... The clatter of silverware filled the air once more. I took a bite of the risotto. The savory richness of the cream and the tender softness of the seaweed spread across my tongue. It was exactly the flavor I had expected, yet it felt somehow unfamiliar. Is this... also the grammar of a misunderstanding trope? The thought suddenly crossed my mind. A narrative where the protagonist is finally recognized by his family. A development where, instead of having to turn the whole country upside down just to call his father 'father', he simply goes about his business in silence until everyone misunderstands and accepts him. Framing it that way made it simple and easy to process. But today, that cynical interpretation didn't sit right with me. ...Is it really okay to view it that way? Is it truly acceptable for a family bond to be forged through a mere misunderstanding? That unsettling question began to take root in my mind.
My past life's experiences had always warned me: there was no such thing as pure, selfless goodwill in this world. Every act of kindness could ultimately be calculated as a transaction.
In that dry, sterile world, I had learned cynicism. I learned how to expect nothing, how to hide my weaknesses, and how to spot the hidden invoice that always followed an act of goodwill. The world I had reincarnated into was no different. Nobles kept each other in check, while commoners struggled just to survive. Even within the safety of the walls, humans preyed on humans, returning kindness with malice. It was a world where I had absolutely no reason to discard the cynicism of my past life.
So, I had learned to interpret goodwill through the convenient lens of a misunderstanding trope. When I was merely my godfather's godson, that had been enough. But adoption... That meant family. And family could not be built on such a foundation. It shouldn't be forged through a misunderstanding. At least, that was what I believed. The moment even family became a lie, I would be destroying the only sanctuary where I could take off my mask and rest.
What should I do...? The risotto was growing cold. A thin skin was beginning to form over the surface of the cream. ...I have to tell them before the adoption goes through. These people were completely mistaken about who I was. I was not some noble, saintly figure. Not a single one of my actions had been done out of pure devotion to this family. My goodwill stemmed from a self-imposed sense of duty as a protagonist, not because I particularly loved them. Most of all, I had shamelessly exploited their goodwill for my own benefit. I had no right to become their family. Doing so would not only be a betrayal of their trust, but it also carried the dangerous risk of permanently fusing my false mask to my face.
"Godfather." "I told you to call me Father. Fine, let's hear what you have to say first." "I am not the kind of person you think I am." "And how exactly do you think I view you?" "I..." My throat tightened. If I revealed the truth, they would likely reject me. But that was far better than having everything fall apart in the worst possible way after the adoption was finalized. I steeled myself and spoke.
"Everything I have done since coming to the House of Nihilit was solely to secure my own position within the family." I squeezed my eyes shut. A chilling silence fell over the dining table. I braced myself, waiting for my godfather's reaction. Finally, he let out a soft chuckle.
"Come to think of it, you have never stopped walking on eggshells around me since the day you arrived." My godfather set down his spoon. "Then tell me, how much of it was just you 'securing your position'?" "..." "Was giving me malaria medicine and nursing me through the night also just a calculated move?" "..." "Was devising a dish like this for Rinie also just a calculated move?" "..." "And Freya, who has absolutely no political influence in this family..." His eyes drifted to Freya's bowl. "...Was picking the carrots out of only her bowl also just a calculated move?" "..."
He let out a heavy sigh. "I had no idea you were festering inside like this. It is entirely my shortcoming. I only realized it when you brought out only three bowls, leaving yourself out." "No. I was merely doing what was natural as an outsider..." "Do not hide behind the word 'calculation'." The moment those words left his mouth, my knuckles turned white around my spoon. His gaze swept over my risotto, which was completely devoid of toppings.
"Julian. To my eyes, you look like a child who steps back in advance for fear of getting hurt, who gives up before he can be rejected, yet cannot stop his hands from caring for others." With that, my godfather scooped up the abalone topping from his own bowl and placed it onto my risotto. "That is why I am trying to correct this, even if it is late."
"Correct it...?" "I know it sounds like an excuse, but I knew things were awkward between you and your mother. But I feared stepping in hastily would only complicate things. I assumed you would adapt on your own." He pointed to the abalone on my risotto. "But even after four years, nothing ever made its way onto your bowl." "..."
"If it were just calculation, you would have done it in moderation. You would have pleased us moderately, kept a moderate distance, and used us moderately. A clever boy like you couldn't possibly not know moderation." He met my eyes. In his gaze, I could see pity, guilt... and affection. It was the kind of look a biological father might have given his son.
"But you couldn't do moderation. Not with nursing, not with cooking, not even with a single slice of carrot. Everything was either excessively devoted or excessively withdrawn. There was no middle ground." "..." "You are young, so you might not know, but we do not call that calculation. Calculation is staying in the middle ground." He placed his hand on my shoulder. "What you have been doing are things one only does for family." Pat, pat. "This adoption isn't about making a new place for you. It's simply moving what you've been putting in my bowl for ten years into yours." "..."
"So stop with the 'Godfather' nonsense and call me 'Father'." "That is..." "If it's just calculation, you should call me what you're told. Can't you even do that in moderation?" Just then, Mother, who had been listening quietly, chimed in. "Dear." She spoke as if scolding him. "We are at the dinner table. Why are you lecturing him so much that he'll get indigestion? And... Julian acting like this is entirely our fault." "Ahem." My godfather cleared his throat and drank from his water glass.
Mother's gaze fell on me. Her eyes, which had been wandering over the bowl of risotto mixed with abalone entrails, slowly met mine. Hesitation was clear. The pride of a noblewoman and the guilt of a mother—perhaps the silence was her choosing the right words between the two. Soon, having finished her inner struggle, Mother spoke. "Julian." "...Yes, Mother." "I, too..." Her voice trailed off. She toyed with the stem of her water glass.
"I should have accepted you when you approached, but my old feelings got the better of me and I built a wall. I was childish." "..." "From now on... I will try. So you, too..." Mother paused for a moment and gave a faint smile. "If you need anything, just act like a child. It's late, but I want to see that."
It was a clumsy confession. She was trying to restrain her emotions like a noblewoman, but her voice trembled slightly. I chewed on the raw emotions they sent me, and soon, let out my own. "...Thank you, Mother, Father." Mother nodded slightly. Fearing my throat would tighten if I spoke any longer, I gave a short reply and bowed my head.
Clatter. The sound of silverware clashing rose again over the quiet table. Just then, I made eye contact with Freya, who had been rolling her eyes in the suddenly serious atmosphere. "Um, Brother?" "Yes?" "I'm sorry, too." Freya had absolutely nothing to be sorry for. At her sudden apology, my parents' and my eyes all gathered on her.
"...For what?" At my question, Freya hesitated and avoided my gaze. "I... I'm sorry. I just felt like I had to..." Sensing that the situation was serious, she was clutching her spoon with her small hands and watching our reactions. She probably thought she had to apologize since her parents did. It wasn't like this was a round of apologies. At the survival skill of a ten-year-old girl who jumped on the bandwagon without even knowing why, the tight tension snapped.
"...Thank you." Mother burst into a chuckle and stroked Freya's head. "Yes, our daughter is the best." "Hehe." Freya shrugged. She didn't even know why she was being praised, but she seemed happy anyway. Father also scratched his nose and picked up his spoon. "Ahem. Let's end the talk here. The food is getting cold. Let's eat."
The clattering sound filled the dining room again. I took a large spoonful of the cooling risotto. The rich flavor of cream and the tender texture of abalone filled my mouth. Only then did I realize why the first bite had felt so unfamiliar. It was because the temperature was distinctly different from the cold kimbap or sandwiches I used to swallow alone in the freezing duty room of my past life. I chewed that warmth slowly, for a very long time, before swallowing.
During the meal, Father, who had handed all the abalone to me, frowned. By giving all the butter-grilled abalone to me, the element that masked the bitter taste of the entrails had disappeared. After taking a few bites of the risotto, Father asked me, "Julian. Why is only my plate uniquely green?"
"I added more ingredients with your health in mind, Godfather—no, Father." "...I think it would be fine to use a bit of 'calculation' in times like this." "How could I do that to my beloved father?" In the East, abalone entrails were precious, so it was love anyway. It was definitely not dumping the leftover ingredients on the head of the household. "...Right." Father nodded reluctantly at my words.