Happy Lunch at my Mom's 2

The black BMW stopped in front of a very modest home with an attached restaurant. There was nothing fancy, not a neon sign nor any loud advertisement for the place, but an open door and windows here and there. Jooyeon's heart was pounding as he caught a glimpse of it.

This is it. My mom's restaurant. Why on earth did I have that bright idea?

Han Seoyoon stepped out of the car with her usual grace, her heels clicking against the pavement. She surveyed the quaint establishment with an unreadable expression. Jooyeon nervously walked beside her, his hands clammy as he fidgeted with the hem of his shirt.

"So, this is your mom's restaurant?" she asked, her tone neutral.

Yes, Madam," Jooyeon replied stiffly. His eyes swept over the deserted dining area within – only a few locals were occupying a few of the ten small tables with three plain chairs each. Late afternoon sunlight shone through the windows and exposed the spotless interior. It was around 3:30 PM, but the silence felt even more pronounced because of the lack of guests.

He thinks about Jooyeon. She probably has second thoughts and decides she doesn't want to come after all. It's no three-star restaurant. The woman is probably accustomed to fine dining with chandeliers and velvet upholstery, not. this.

But to his surprise, Seoyoon did not flinch. Her composed beauty was intact; her demeanor remained as cool as ever. She walked forward, her heels barely making a sound on the clean floor, and stepped into the narrow hallway that led to the dining area.

Jooyeon followed, his breath hitching as he watched her walk. She even walks like a runway model, he thought. Her movements are fluid, effortless with her coat draped over her shoulders like she's on the cover of a magazine.

Inside, Seoyoon's sharp eyes scanned around. The wooden floor shone; a faint smell of home-cooked food hung in the air, and the simple room almost became lovable. So this is where he grew up? she wondered, her fingers stroking lightly on the back of a chair as she sat down.

"Why don't you take the orders?" she said, glancing at Jooyeon with an expression that bordered on playful challenge. "It's your place, after all."

"Yes, Madam!" Jooyeon shot up from his seat so quickly that he nearly knocked it over. Smooth, real smooth. He walked toward the kitchen with stiff, robotic steps, his shoulders tense as if he were marching into battle.

Seoyoon's lips curved slightly, a rare moment of amusement flashing across her face. He's so flustered. Does he really think I'd judge him for this? She leaned back in her chair, letting her hand rest lightly on the table.

It was a place completely alien to her. The bare setup, the faint hum of the kitchen, the lack of gaudy decorations-it was all something she'd never seen before. As a daughter of an affluent family, her meals were always served in opulence with dishes prepared meticulously and extravagant surroundings.

But this? This felt.real.

Her fingers trailed along the edge of the table. A smooth surface, worn. So this is what it's like, she thought. To eat somewhere unassuming, surrounded by simplicity. Not bad. Not bad at all.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Jooyeon fumbling near the kitchen, speaking hurriedly to someone—likely his mom. His nervous energy was palpable even from across the room. She chuckled softly, shaking her head.

He's so different from the people I'm used to. Honest, awkward, and… strangely endearing.

Jooyeon entered the kitchen, and with that moment, a strong tide of nostalgia washed over him, pounding him like a freight train coming over the hill. The air around him was heavy and thick, full of pleasant aromas: the richness of spices, the smell of sizzling oil, and the grounding, earthy scent of steamed rice as it filled the room. It was comforting and warm, but at the same time, his chest felt heavy with an overwhelming sense of emotion. This was more than a kitchen where food was prepared. It was a battlefield, and his mother, steadfast and determined, was its soldier, constantly fighting against the pressures of family and food.

He stood in the doorway, observing her intently, as her small frame moved about with a grace that spoke of practiced efficiency. Over the years, time had etched faint lines onto her face, marking a quiet testimony to the countless battles she had valiantly fought in order to keep this place running smoothly. Her hands, which bore the evidence of being calloused and scarred from hard work, skillfully danced over the stove, flipping the wok as if it were an intrinsic extension of her very body.

How many years has she dedicated herself to this? How many meals has she lovingly prepared while keeping me in her thoughts, though I was unable to do anything to even ease her burden a little bit?

His eyes fell down and guilt gnawed at his insides like a persistent hunger. The kitchen was not a place where food was cooked but a shrine that paid homage to all the sacrifices she had made for him. Every utensil, every burn mark on the counters, and each imperfection on the tiles all spoke of a story of unyielding resolve.

The aroma of food wafting through the air combined with the deep, almost unbearable ache in his heart, evoking a memory that was so striking and vivid it seemed as if he was actually reliving that moment from the past.

A ten-year-old Jooyeon raced through the bustling streets with an infectious energy, his schoolbag bouncing rhythmically against his back with each hurried step he took. His excitement was almost tangible, radiating from him as he wore a wide, joyful grin while cheerfully greeting neighbors he passed by along his route.

"Jooyeon-ah, you're running like you've got something important to do!" an older woman playfully teased from her comfortable spot on the porch.

"I'm feeling quite hungry, Grandma Hye!" he called back enthusiastically, his feet barely making contact with the ground as he jumped around in excitement.

Bursting through the door into the bustling kitchen of the restaurant, he yelled with glee, "Mom! What's on the menu for lunch today?"

The delightful clatter of pots and the cheerful laughter of the staff warmly greeted him as he entered. To Jooyeon, this joyful noise was nothing short of the comforting sound of home. He dashed between the busy workers, earning a charming mix of amused scolding and loving pats on the head from those around him.

At long last, he found himself standing in front of his mother. "Mom!" he exclaimed excitedly, throwing himself forward and wrapping his arms around her waist in an enthusiastic embrace. She looked down at him with a warm smile, and with her free hand, she affectionately ruffled his hair, her gesture filled with love and tenderness.

"Jooyeon, please slow down —" 

Her voice trailed off abruptly as she realized that the heavy wok she was holding in her other hand had tilted precariously, threatening to spill hot oil directly toward him. In a remarkable display of quick reflexes, she swiftly caught it with her right hand, managing to steady the wok just before it could tip any further and create a mess.

The sound of sizzling oil making contact with her skin was accompanied by a sudden, sharp intake of breath that filled the air with tension. Jooyeon's eyes widened in horror as he caught sight of the furious, angry red burn marring her palm, a sight that struck him deeply. In an instant, his initial excitement faded away entirely, replaced instead by an overwhelming tidal wave of guilt that crashed over him like a dark cloud.

"I'm really sorry, Mom! I truly didn't mean to—" he stammered, his voice trembling as tears began to pool in his eyes, reflecting his distress and regret.

His mother gracefully knelt down to the ground, carefully setting the wok aside with deliberation, and gently cupped his face in her uninjured hand with tenderness. "Jooyeon, shh. It's okay," she softly reassured him, her voice flowing like a soothing lullaby that enveloped them both.

"But you got hurt because of me!" he sobbed in despair, his little body trembling with emotion, as the weight of the situation overwhelmed him.

"Do you have any idea just how incredibly strong your mom is?" she inquired, a warm smile breaking through the shadow of her pain. "This situation is really nothing to me. A little burn isn't enough to hold me back, but watching you cry? That truly breaks my heart."

She lifted him effortlessly in her arms, her burnt hand trembling slightly yet remaining firm in its grip. As she spun him around joyfully, laughter erupted from her lips, and the kitchen staff joined in with enthusiastic cheers. "See? Your mom is so much tougher than she appears at first glance!"

The memory began to dissipate and slowly fade away as Jooyeon found himself returning to the present moment, feeling an uncomfortable tightness in his chest. His gaze became fixed on the very same wok that had been present in his childhood, now resting on the stove, its handle having become worn and smooth from years of use.

I was far too young to truly comprehend it all back then, Mom, he thought to himself, with a feeling of constriction in his throat. But at this point in my life, I finally understand. You have always shouldered the weight of this family, making countless sacrifices along the way. And in contrast, I've done nothing but add to the burden that you already carry.

His fists knotted up hard at his sides, a wave of anger surged through him, intensely focused on himself. How could I have been so blind to the truth, so blind to everything?

He looked over at the surroundings again, staring at it as if he were reading a book, seeing everything his mom did here. Her full attention was given to what she was doing, and her hands were the only ones moving, busy at the task. The scars etched into her hands had smoothed out with time, but they were still visible, an unmistakable reminder of all the pain and suffering she endured for him.

You deserve so much more than this, Mom. I feel that in every single fiber of my being. Everything will change for the better and soon. You will never again have to worry about anything at all in your life.

The resolve that had long lived in his chest condensed into something even deeper as he took deliberate steps toward the stove, his hand reaching out to touch the cold, hard surface of the wok. It felt much heavier than he could remember from previous experiences, not just because of its physical weight, but rather because of all the memories that it carried along with it.

Jooyeon gripped the edge of the counter, still lost in his thoughts. Emotions were welling up in him: guilt, resolve, and nostalgia. The clatter of pots and the low hum of the stove receded into the background as he delved deeper into his memories.

Meanwhile, back in the dining area, Han Sooyoung sat by one of the small tables; her legs crossed elegantly while her coat served as a cloak over her shoulder. Her eyes fluttered around at the modest restaurant, taking into account the creaky wooden chairs, a little faded curtains, and that faint smell of oil and spices in the air.

She tapped her nails gently on the table, glancing at her watch. How long does it take to get a menu? she wondered, though her face revealed no impatience.

She snapped back to the present with soft footsteps. She had half turned, thinking maybe Jooyeon had returned, possibly a little apologetic but to her suprise An elderly woman was actually coming over to her table, with her slouch and unadorned dress, under an equally unadorned apron, holding a pad of paper and pen.

"Good afternoon," the woman greeted warmly, her voice carrying a gentle strength. "I'll be taking your order today."

Han Sooyoung blinked in mild surprise. This wasn't what she expected. She'd imagined Jooyeon's mother to be like the restaurant—unassuming and worn by time. But there was a quiet dignity in the older woman's demeanor, a kind of grace that couldn't be taught.

Are you the owner?" Sooyoung asked, her voice neutral but with a question in it.

The woman smiled, a soft, knowing expression. "I am. This little place has been my pride and joy for over twenty years.