Chapter 3: The Calm
Chapter 3: Collapse
It's another ordinary morning in the restraunt.
The kitchen hums with familiar sounds: the soft sizzle of oil frying karaage, the bubbling of curry on the stove, the clink of utensils lifted and set down.
Jiro and his father work side by side. Their hands moving in a quiet rhythm – chopping, mixing, stirring, passing tools back and forth without a word. The tension from yesterday's falling-out hangs in the air, like a thick smoke settling over the kitchen. A barely functioning radio crackles to life, breaking the awkward silence every so often, before sputtering back into silence.
Above them, a portrait watches from the wall – Jiro grins wide, pressed between his parents, their joy frozen in time. Beside it hangs another picture: his parents dusted in flour, sauce staining their faces, laughing like children.
Jiro turns to the sink, his gaze lifting to the pictures above. A fond smile tugs at his lips as he begins the dishes.
He remembers it clearly, like it was yesterday. A time before everything changed. Before his father became a stranger. Back when he stood tall—unshakable, full of fire, like he could bend the world to his will.
Jiro's thoughts drift back…
They were making pasta from scratch that day. His dad turned to him, flour smudged across his hands and cheek. With a gentle smile, he lifted young Jiro onto his broad shoulders, holding him steady as laughter filled the kitchen.
His dad loved experimenting with bold, unfamiliar dishes—fusing flavors from his homeland with Japanese cuisine. Meanwhile, his mother stuck to traditional recipes.
Every day brought something new. The locals rarely warmed to his creations, sticking to the familiar dishes. But Naku—always drunk and content— never hesitated to try.
But it wasn't always laughter. Jiro can still see the narrow gap in the kitchen door—the way it framed his parents as their voices rose, and tempers flared.
Years Earlier
A voice snapped through the dark, jolting Jiro awake. Another followed—louder, angrier.
His parents were screaming again, their voices rising in tandem, neither backing down. Back and forth, back and forth—he couldn't make out the words, just the anger behind them.
Jiro slipped from bed and padded down the stairs, the wood cold beneath his feet.
From the base of the steps, he peeked around the corner into the restaurant, just far enough to catch them through the narrow slit of the door—his mother, arms crossed, papers clenched in one hand, jaw tight. His father paced nearby, hands moving wildly as he spoke.
"I told you this was a bad idea! My mother told you too!"
Her voice cracked as she shouted, "Why do you never listen to anyone! It's always, I'll handle it and it'll be okay! Well it's not! Everything is not okay!"
"You expect me to follow your mother's advice?! She hasn't been able to keep a husband longer than a week!" he yelled, his hands flailing.
After several more minutes of heated shouting, their anger had lost momentum, replaced by silence and shallow breaths.
His mother covered her face with one hand, eyes welling with tears. Her voice, shaken from the yelling, trembled as she managed to speak.
"Do you even realize how far behind we are, Mark? The rent, the mortgage—we can barely afford to keep food stocked at the shop! What happens when they throw us out? Where are we supposed to go?" Where is our son going to sleep?"
She collapses onto the nearest chair, burying her face in her hands as the tears came pouring down her cheeks.
The anger drains from Mark's face. He lowers his voice and walks toward Jiro's mother, each step weighed down by guilt.
He gently places a hand on her shoulder.
"We'll find a way," he says softly. "We've made it this far, haven't we? I'll start doing shifts at the docks if I have to. We'll be alright, Yuna."
Jiro's sobs cut through their conversation, tears pouring down his cheeks, as he bursts into the room.
"Areee, you guys *sniffles* going to stop being together? 'Cause Kiro's parents aren't together anymore, and he says he doesn't see them now. I don't want to not see you guys anymore."
He erupts into more tears.
Mark walks over to Jiro, scoops him up, and hugs little body tightly against him.
"Your mother and I aren't leaving each other silly. We just have some things to work out with the shop. Everything's going to be fine," he says calmly and confidently.
Yuna rises and wraps her arms around both Jiro and his father. Barely tall enough to reach them, she stretches wide, holding them both close.
"Everything's going to be okay, honey," she soothes him.
While rubbing her hand through his spiky hair, she teases, "Someone needs a haircut."
Jiro wipes his nose on his father's shirt, then shouts, "I'm growing it out! All the cool kids have long hair!"
"Whatever you say," Mark says, eyeing his shirt with a mixture of amusement and disgust.
Laughing softly, they head to bed. Jiro curls up between his towering father and petite mother, feeling warm and secure.
Jiro snaps back to the present, breaking the heaviness left by yesterday's fight.
"Are you practicing to be a grumpy old man, or does it just come naturally?" he mutters to his dad, trying to ease the tension.
Jiro's dad responds with a grin, "Funny you should say that—I was just thinking how good your impression of me has gotten."
The hours slipped by as they worked tirelessly, their laughter pierced the haze of sweat and exertion, the kitchen humming with the rich aromas and bustling noise of their work. The way they'd always spent their Sundays.