Page 53 of The Valentine Agenda

"Umma—"

"And the Mitchell acquisition numbers—"

"Yeobo," his father interrupted gently, squeezing her shoulder as he passed. "Let him breathe first."

His mother's knife paused. "He looks like he hasn't been sleeping."

"I've been sleeping fine," James protested, but his father was already studying him with those gentle eyes that saw too much.

"Sit," his father said, pulling out the kitchen stool—the same one where his mother used to help James with homework. "Tell us about her."

James's head snapped up. "What?"

"Please," his mother scoffed, but her knife movements softened.

"James." His father's voice was soft but firm. "Business doesn't make you look like this. Love does."

His mother's knife picked up speed again. "Is it that PR woman? The one with the Instagram aesthetics and poor investment strategy?"

"Yeobo," his father chided gently. "Let him tell us."

"No," James said quietly. "It's... someone different. Someone real."

His mother's chopping slowed fractionally—the closest she'd come to showing surprise. His father just smiled, that knowing look that had always made James feel seen.

"Her name is Hannah," James found himself saying. "She teaches third grade. She remembers how everyone in the building takes their tea. She helps elderly residents with their groceries and organizes community projects and—" He broke off, running a hand through his hair. "And I ruined everything."

"Tell us about Hannah," his father said. "The real things, not her resume."

So James did. About her smile when helping children with art projects. How she straightened that frame in the lobby that always tilted left. The way she made spaces warmer just by existing in them.

His mother's knife kept moving, but her rhythm changed, softened. His father just listened, that gentle understanding in his eyes that had always made James feel braver.

"And now?" his father prompted when James finally ran out of words.

"Now I don't know how to fix it."

"Fix," his mother scoffed. "Always fixing. Like love is a merger you can restructure." But her voice held no bite.

"What your mother means," his father said, "is that sometimes the bravest thing isn't proving yourself worthy. It's letting someone see you exactly as you are."

"Even if who I am isn't enough?"

His mother's knife clattered against the cutting board. "James Park," she said sharply, turning to face him fully. "You have never been less than enough."

His mother returned to her cooking, the rhythm of her knife against the cutting board filling the silence between them. Each sound echoed with memory—meals shared, lessons learned, comfort offered without words.

"I missed this," he admitted quietly.

"Did you?" His mother's knife didn't pause. "Or did you just miss having somewhere to hide when your world stops making sense?"

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"I thought I was different," James said finally, pushing the kimchi around in his bowl. The familiar smell of his mother's cooking wrapped around him, but even the table spread with childhood favorites couldn't ease the ache in his chest. "I thought I'd changed. But when it mattered, when it really mattered, I—" His voice caught. "I was exactly who she thought I was."

"And who is that?" his father asked gently, reaching for more rice, while his mother's chopsticks clicked against her bowl with sharp disapproval.

"Someone who can't—who doesn't know how to put others first." The admission felt like glass in his throat.

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