Chapter 8
Watching the head maid go to fetch my bowl, I fell into a sentimental mood.
I thought it was only natural.
I was just an adopted son, after all. An outsider with no blood ties. Crashing a family meal was presumptuous.
And yet.
“What are you standing there for? Sit down.”
Godfather pointed to a side of the table.
Mother smiled.
“Yes, Julian. Come sit here.”
“Big brother, hurry up!”
Freya waved at me.
…
I slowly got up from the cradle and stood before the table.
It was still awkward.
Even in the 21st century, experiences like this were rare.
During my surgical residency, eating alone was routine, and it stayed that way after I became a fellow.
Especially a table shared with family.
‘…How long had it been?’
I couldn't remember.
“Please sit down, young master.”
The head maid had already returned and set down the fourth bowl.
I slowly took my seat.
I picked up my spoon and took my first bite.
It was a dish I'd made myself, but somehow it tasted different.
“How is it?”
Godfather asked.
“…It's delicious.”
“But you made it, didn't you?”
Godfather snorted with a laugh.
“Julian.”
“Yes, Godfather.”
“Move your things out of the annex now.”
“...Huh?”
No way, was I being kicked out?
Why, right now?
Was this the last supper?
But that wasn't what Godfather meant.
“We need to eat together like this every day, but I can't keep calling you from the annex every time. And…”
Godfather exchanged a glance with Mother.
After reaching an unspoken agreement with Mother, Godfather opened his mouth again.
“Let's do something about that stiff way of addressing me. How long are you going to keep calling me Godfather? Call me Father from now on. Just hearing it makes me feel like I'll choke on it.”
I stared blankly at Godfather.
“…“
Because what he was basically saying was that he would adopt me.
Of course, Godfather was already my guardian.
But that declaration was practically saying he'd treat me like his own child, someone who could carry on the family line just like Freya.
Seeing me stare blankly, Godfather said calmly, as if waiting for an answer.
“If you dislike it, then don't.”
“No…”
I shook my head.
“I would be grateful… to accept.”
“Good.”
“Then maybe I should call you Head of the House….”
“You're not old enough to call me Head of the House.”
Godfather gave a snort of laughter.
“Maybe when you're grown and calling me that in public, I won't mind, but for now call me Father.”
“…Understood.”
“Good.”
Godfather picked up his spoon again.
Freya and Mother did the same.
I followed suit and lifted my spoon.
“…“
The sound of spoons clinking rang out again.
I took a mouthful of risotto.
The cream's richness and the softness of the seaweed spread through my mouth.
It was the flavor I'd expected, but somehow it felt unfamiliar.
‘…Is this, too, the grammar of a misunderstanding story?’
That thought flashed through my mind.
Wasn't this the story of a protagonist being recognized by his family?
No need to go stirring up the country just because you want to call your father “Father”—if you quietly do your job, the people around you will misunderstand and accept you.
That kind of interpretation was easier, without having to think too hard.
But today, that explanation didn't sit right.
‘…Can I really read it that way?’
Could a family relationship be forged through a misunderstanding?
Because that nagging question had begun to dominate my thoughts.
*
My past-life experience had always warned me.
That there is no such thing as a flawless good deed, and that every good deed can be interpreted in terms of gain and loss.
— [Anon: Anyway, trauma surgery makes good money these days, right? If you got paid that much, doing that much is only natural.]
In that dry world, I learned cynicism.
How not to expect anything, how not to show weakness, and how to spot the bill that comes after kindness.
And the world I'd been reborn into wasn't much different.
Nobles kept one another in check, and commoners were desperate just to survive.
A world where people devour one another even within the walls, and return kindness with malice.
There was no reason to throw away the cynicism I'd learned in my past life.
So I learned to interpret goodwill through the lens of a misunderstanding story.
When I was just Godfather's godson, that was enough.
‘But adoption….’
Family.
Family shouldn't be that kind of relationship.
It shouldn't be bound together by a misunderstanding.
At least, that's what I believed.
Because the moment even family becomes a lie, I'd be erasing the place where I can take off my mask and rest.
‘What do I do….’
The risotto was cooling.
A thin film had started to form on the surface of the cream.
‘…Still, I guess I should speak up before the adoption.’
Those people are mistaken about me.
I am not such a noble person.
Not everything I've done was for this family.
My goodwill came from the duty that comes with being the protagonist, not because I particularly loved them.
More than anything, I had made good use of their goodwill for my own purposes.
So I shouldn't become part of their family.
That would go beyond deceiving them; it would also carry the risk of letting my own false mask settle in place.
“Godfather.”
“I told you to call me Father. That's enough. First, let's hear what you wanted to say.”
“I'm not the kind of person you think I am, Godfather.”
“What exactly do you think I think of you?”
“I…”
I choked up.
If I revealed this fact, they would probably reject me.
But that would still be better than being adopted and then falling apart in the worst possible way someday.
I steadied myself and opened my mouth.
“Everything I've done in House Nihirit was done to establish my standing within the family.”
I squeezed my eyes shut.
The dining table went eerily silent.
I waited for Godfather's response.
Before long, he gave a snort of laughter.
“Come to think of it, ever since you came to this house, you've never once stopped reading my mood.”
Godfather stopped moving his spoon.
“Then how much of that was just proper conduct?”
“…“
“Was giving me malaria medicine and nursing me all night also proper conduct?”
“…“
“Was coming up with this kind of dish for Linie also proper conduct?”
“…“
“And in Freya's bowl, which has no influence whatsoever in the family….”
Godfather's eyes lingered on Freya's bowl.
“…the carrot is missing only from this child's bowl?”
“…“
Godfather let out a long sigh.
“So this had festered in you this badly. It's all my fault for not being enough. I only realized it when I brought three bowls and left yours out.”
“No, I was just, as an outsider, doing the obvious….”
“Don't run away by calling it proper conduct.”
The tips of the fingers gripping my spoon turned white the moment I heard that.
His gaze swept over my risotto, which had no toppings on it at all.
“Julian. In my eyes, you look like a child who withdraws before he can get hurt, gives up before he can be rejected, and yet can't stop himself from reaching out.”
And Godfather fished the abalone topping out of his own bowl and placed it on top of my risotto.
“That's why I'm trying to set things right now.”
“Set what right…?”
“I know it'll sound like an excuse, but I knew things were awkward between you and your mother. Still, if I rushed in carelessly, I thought it would only get more tangled. I figured you'd adapt on your own.”
Godfather pointed to the abalone on top of my risotto.
“But even after four years, nothing ever got put in your bowl.”
“…“
“If it's proper conduct, then just do it in moderation. Make a decent impression, keep your distance in moderation, and use people in moderation. No way a smart guy like you wouldn't know what moderation means.”
Godfather met my eyes.
In that gaze, I could see pity and guilt…
And affection.
It was the sort of look my real father might have given me.
“But you couldn't do moderation, could you? Nursing, cooking, even a single slice of carrot. Everything was either too careful or too withdrawn. There was nothing in between.”
“…“
“You may not know this because you're still young, but that's not what you call proper conduct. Conduct means staying in the middle.”
Godfather's hand rested on my shoulder.
“The things you've been doing are things one would only do for family.”
Pat-pat.
“This adoption isn't about making a new place for you. It's just moving what you've been putting on my bowl for the past ten years onto your own bowl now.”
“…“
“So stop with the Godfather this and Godfather that, and call me Father.”
“That…”
“If it's proper conduct, then you should be able to call me as I tell you to. Can't you even manage that much?”
At that moment, Mother, who had been listening quietly, cut in.
“Dear.”
Mother spoke as if she were chiding Godfather.
“It's a meal. Why are you giving us a lecture that's making us choke? And… Julian acting like this is all our fault, isn't it?”
“Ahem.”
With a fake cough, Godfather gulped down a glass of water.
Mother's gaze landed on me.
The gaze that had been drifting over the risotto bowl topped with abalone innards slowly met my eyes.
It was plain to see that she was hesitating.
The pride of a noble lady and the guilt of a mother.
Wasn't this the silence of someone choosing the right word somewhere in between?
After finishing her inner struggle, Mother finally opened her mouth.
“Julian.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“I also….”
Her words trailed off.
Mother idly fiddled with the stem of the wineglass filled with water.
“I should have accepted you when you came to me, but old feelings got in the way and I put up a wall. I wasn't very grown-up.”
“…“
“I'll try from now on… So you too….”
Mother paused for a moment, then gave a faint smile.
“If you need something, just act spoiled and ask for it. It's late, but that's what I wanted to see.”
It was a clumsy confession.
Though she was trying to restrain her emotions like the noble lady she was, her voice was trembling faintly.
I mulled over the raw emotion they were showing me,
then, in the end, voiced my own feelings.
“Thank you, Mother, Father.”
Mother gave a small nod.
Fearing I'd choke if I said any more, I answered briefly and bowed my head.
Clink.
The sound of cutlery striking the table came again over the quiet dining room.
Then I met Freya's eyes, which had been darting around in the suddenly serious atmosphere.
“Big brother?”
“Yeah?”
“I'm sorry too.”
Freya had nothing to apologize to me for.
So at her sudden apology, both my parents and I turned to look at her.
“What are you sorry for?”
At my question, Freya fidgeted and looked away.
“S-sorry. I just felt like I had to….”
She had probably sensed that something about the situation was serious, because she kept stealing looks while tightly gripping her spoon with her tiny hand.
She must have thought that since her parents were apologizing, she should probably do it first too.
What was this, some kind of apology round-robin?
At the ten-year-old girl's habit of joining in before even knowing why, the taut thread of tension snapped.
“Thank you.”
Mother burst out laughing and patted Freya on the head.
“Yes, our daughter is the sweetest.”
“Hehe.”
Freya puffed up proudly. She seemed pleased, even though she didn't know why she was being praised.
Father also scratched the bridge of his nose and picked up his spoon.
“Ahem. Let's end the talking now. The food will get cold. Come on, let's eat.”
The clinking sounds filled the dining room again.
I took a big spoonful of the cooling risotto.
The cream's richness and the tender texture of the abalone spread across my mouth.
Only then did I realize why the first bite had felt unfamiliar.
Because it was clearly a different temperature from the kimbap or sandwiches I'd swallowed alone in the cold on-call room in my past life.
I slowly, very slowly, chewed and swallowed that warmth.
*
While we were eating.
Father, who had given me all the abalone, frowned.
By handing all the butter-fried abalone over to me, the element that had covered up the bitterness of the innards had vanished.
After taking a few bites of risotto, Father asked me.
“Julian. Then why is my plate the only one that's especially green?”
“I added a few more ingredients, thinking of your health, Godfather—no, Father.”
“…I suppose you could have shown a little tact there.”
“How could I do such a thing to my beloved Father?”
In the East, abalone innards are considered a delicacy, so either way, this was love.
This was absolutely not me just dumping the leftover ingredients on the head of the family.
“…Alright.”
Father nodded reluctantly at my words.