Chapter 1 ~ Minho
Well, this is unexpected and highly unwelcome
––––––––
Have you ever sat at the dinner table and wondered where it all went wrong? I mean, there are three reasons I never came to any of dad’s mandatory family dinners.
They are lame and usually involve him lecturing my sister or me on our life choices. He always makes his gross overcooked meatloaf, and the third is just me being a brat, but my sister could turn chewing into an Olympic sport just to leave the table as soon as humanly possible.
If we are lucky, eating at the same table is filled with pure silence until my sister can go back to the city.
And I will be able to escape to my best friend’s place, where I’ve been living for the last three months, which, I won’t lie, is hard to convince him to let me go, but the constant fighting over not taking up his stupid hockey legacy is killing me.
So sleeping on the couch in Nyla’s basement is an easy sacrifice to make for quiet.
I’m seventeen, almost an adult in the eyes of our government, as soon as I turn eighteen this week on the thirtieth of October. So this should mean the days of him reminding me I am failing to follow in his footsteps are over.
But escape from Colton Walker's “family bonding time” or the man in general is rare because, above all else, my dad is the hockey coach of Eden U and a former NHL player, so you can imagine the amount of hockey games I am roped into watching with him until he passes out on the couch after three beers and a bowl of Doritos like clockwork.
Which made today’s mandatory dinner interestingly weird when I got Dad’s text warning me I wasn’t allowed to skip, or else I wouldn’t like the outcome.
Scary, right?
Yeah, well, I am halfway through scrolling through another book recommendation on TikTok when my dad clears his throat, and I find the sound utterly suspicious.
Why are we here?
I glance up from my phone to see Yeseo, across the table, already narrowing her eyes in our dad’s direction. “What?” she asks.
Dad smiles nervously, and I don’t know how, but I know from that look alone this isn’t going to be one of our typical family dinners because Colton Walker, our father, is never nervous in front of us, nor does he smile the way he is now.
“I can only imagine you guys are wondering why I wanted us to dine together tonight, and I think I owe you both an explanation because what I am about to say is very important.”
“Dad, I don’t mean to be the bearer of bad news,” my sister pauses for dramatic effect as she looks over the room before settling her sights on him again. “But we have dinner almost every night together.”
He smiles tightly. “This is different.”
“How so?” I ask.
Their eyes land on me at the same time for a brief moment, as if they forgot I was even here. Typical. I am the forgotten one, while Yeseo is the perfect child: perfect grades since forever, got into every Ivy League school she wanted and is now a med student.
I am nothing important unless it’s to talk about what they want. Hockey, boy problems, my lack of interest in taking up hockey as dad did, which friends we don’t talk to and which ones we secretly hate, or my favourite, taking up piano lessons being a bore.
You see how it is never about me unless you tell me I am a waste of time? I’ve heard it all at this point, which is why I don’t like coming here, to this house, to these people who call themselves my family but couldn't care less to get to know me or acknowledge my presence.
I’m a ghost.
Yeseo and Dad resume their conversation as if my question held no value. “So, as I was saying, we do the same thing when we spend time with you, and truly, there’s no reason to unless it’s a holiday.” My sister glances in my direction again and gives me a soft smile. “Right, Minho?”
I blink.
Is she being serious? Now she wants my opinion on the matter? It doesn’t even matter since Dad is going to make it his mission to drag us to these dinners more than ever after this, thanks to Yeseo and her big mouth.
I clear my throat and take a sip of my water to give myself time when my dad decides to speak, then, saving me from answering the trap that is my sister’s question.
“Can I tell you my news now?” Dad asks impatiently.
My sister knows that if I gave my honest answer, this whole conversation would turn into an argument. She thrives on riling Dad up; it entertains her as much as one of her K-dramas we watch together when she is going through a break-up.
It’s embarrassing to witness.
“My God,” my sister gasps, the tone alone taking me from my thoughts long enough to look up and see Yeseo’s eyes widen.
Dad blinks, no doubt as confused by whatever is spiralling in my sister's head as I am just from having to sit here and listen to them go back and forth with each other.
“What?” Dad asks.
“You didn’t like,” Yeseo pauses, visibly swallowing as if what she is about to say is repulsive. “Did you get someone pregnant?”
I snort so hard that water nearly comes out of my nose before I have the chance to cover my mouth to mask my laughter because the last time Dad had a girlfriend, there was sort of a false pregnancy scare in which Dad had been so scared that he ended it a few weeks later.
At the end of the table, Dad looks as pale as fresh snow, and all I can think about is how he might be the reason I don’t date long-term.
I mean, dude failed his marriage, hasn’t dated since that last girlfriend who ended up being pregnant with her ex’s twin babies that she tried to pass off as my dad's.
Dad shakes his head. “What? No.”
The poor guy is definitely traumatised or doesn’t see himself having any more children. He’s only thirty-six; we celebrated his birthday last week.
My sister dramatically waves her fork in his direction and says, “Are you having a midlife crisis then?”
“No.”
He and Mom had Yeseo in their senior year of high school. If it weren't for my Halmeoni and Harabeoji, my mother’s parents, neither of my parents would ever have gotten everything they wanted.
Halmeoni and Harabeoji raised my sister on the condition that our parents would give her a Korean name, and the same condition applied to me, even though I came two years after my sister.
By then, my mom was finishing up community college, had opened her boutique in town with Halmeoni, while Dad got drafted to play for the Northern Wolves.
“Don’t tell me you bought a motorcycle.” Yeseo shook her head in disappointment. “It would explain why you’ve been taking shit out of the garage.”
“No,” our dad repeats, jaw ticking.
To think this could be the first dinner we all had together, where it didn't become a screaming match.
Dad looks seconds away from a meltdown.
Life had been perfect for a time afterwards while Mom was still here.
Still, the older I got, and Yeseo got, the more Mom distanced herself, and so long as we didn’t talk about our dad’s parents in this house, but of course, my sister got curious, and that’s when the verbal fights between Mom and Dad started getting worse, up until they no longer slept in the same room.
All I know is that my dad’s parents, super religious people, like worse than my mother’s parents, disowned him when they first found out about Yeseo, and ever since, the topic has been a sour one for Dad.
I didn’t care to know about that side of my family in the beginning; I mean, it always felt like they wanted nothing to do with us, but the more Yeseo talked about them, the more curious I slowly became.
Now I visit them from time to time in secret with my sister because I know, deep down, they want to know how Dad is doing, but are too stubborn to see him or call.
“If it's a cult, I am sure we can find you help, Dad,” Yeseo continues, her voice bringing me back from the trenches of my thoughts. “Just please tell me it’s not a satanic thing because if it is, then you're on your own.”
Dad groans, dragging a hand over his face. “A cult?” He shakes his head. “Why the fuck would you think I would join a cult?”
“He has a point,” I jump in, wanting in on the fun before it ends. “Why would a successful white man like him join a satanic cult?” I ask, my voice as flat as ever.
Messing with dad is like toying with a dog and his toy bone; it’s amusing, and the best part is that when I do speak, he never knows whether I am being sarcastic, telling a joke or being deadly serious.
Like the time I told him I didn’t want to play professional hockey but was interested in playing the piano.
Yeseo shrugs. “I am simply covering all the wild possibilities first.”
I roll my eyes even though I laugh into my glass of water. This conversation is the first time that dinner with these two has been as interesting as the time Yeseo bleached her eyebrows pink and begged me to fix it.
Dad looks between us as if finally seeing what we are doing. “Can I finish?”
Yeseo glances at him, considers it, then replies with, “No.” Then her eyes land on me, and I know what she is doing.
I smile. “Unfortunately, she has more to say,” I answer softly, setting my glass of water down on the table. “But before she says whatever it is, you may speak.”
“Finally,” Dad sighs, his smile returning, like I am talking, the warmest smile this man has ever shown us in a long time. A real shit-eating smile with teeth and his dimples that should be more concerning than cult involvement.
This is going to be bad.
I can feel it in my chest like an uncomfortable ache that isn’t going away until my dad comes out with whatever he wants to tell us.
I hope it's a new car for Yeseo. Her classic 2001 Corvette is becoming a safety hazard; she isn't willing to part with it unless its replacement is a replica.
“I’ve been seeing someone,” Dad utters, too quickly, the vein on his temple pulsing like a nervous tic.