Chapter 15 Kira
KIRA
The Burrow Bitches
Kira: Have you ever thought your parents lied to you? What did you do?
Macey: My parents have always been pretty up-front with me!
Ariadne: Oh yeah, all the time in a little white lie kind of way. Is that not normal?
Britney: i tried to run away after i found out santa claus wasn’t real
The morning light filtered in through the gauzy curtains of my parents’ living room, alerting me to a new day. I’d given up on sleep hours ago. The couch cushions beneath me were stiff, and the loud noise coming from the refrigerator had become an unwelcome soundtrack to my restless night.
Now, cross-legged on the floor in an old hoodie and leggings, I hunched over my sketchpad.
Charcoal dust clung to my fingertips, smudges blooming across the paper as I chased something that didn’t yet exist. No plan, no thumbnail sketch.
Just feeling. Raw, brittle, and aching. I let my hand move without thinking.
A curve here, a shadow there. Her eyes. His hands. The space between.
I was so deep in it I almost didn’t hear the soft clink of porcelain behind me.
“Tea,” my mother said, voice gentler than I expected.
I looked up. She stood there in her robe, eyes tired, hair still pinned back from the night before. She set the mug on the side table beside me, then hesitated like she wasn’t sure if she should stay or go.
“Thanks,” I said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
She looked at the drawing. “It’s pretty.”
“It’s in progress. I started it this morning,” I murmured. “Didn’t sleep much.”
“I didn’t either.”
Silence stretched between us like a thread pulled too tight. I waited for her to say something else. She didn’t. So I focused on the paper again, smudging in the arch of a shoulder.
“I’ve been thinking about what you asked me yesterday,” she finally said, folding her hands in front of her. “About the letter.”
I froze, the charcoal held mid-air. My heart stuttered.
“I lied,” she murmured. “I did know what Landon was talking about.”
I turned slowly to face her. She wasn’t looking at me. Her gaze was locked somewhere distant, toward the bookshelf behind me, or maybe years behind us both.
“I found it. The letter. I was cleaning your room after he left, and I saw it half-tucked under your pillow. I read it.” Her voice cracked. “And I…I made a decision I thought was right at the time.”
I didn’t speak. Couldn’t, considering my throat had turned to stone.
“He hurt you, Kira. And you were so broken after he left. I couldn’t bear to watch you go running back into something that might destroy you all over again.”
“So you decided for me.” My tone was hollow. “You took away my choice.”
She finally looked at me then, and there was no defiance in her eyes, just the weight of regret, heavy and worn.
“I thought I was protecting you. But it wasn’t my place. I know that now.” She stepped closer, then sat down carefully on the edge of the armchair. “I’m sorry.”
The words hung in the air, small and imperfect.
I turned back to my drawing, my fingers numb. The lines on the page blurred. I blinked once. Twice. How could she so easily do that? I couldn’t imagine ever doing that to someone else.
“I spent years thinking he didn’t care,” I whispered. “I built a whole life around the belief that I wasn’t worth fighting for.”
A tear slid down my cheek before I could stop it.
“I know.” My mom’s reply trembled. “I can’t take that pain back. But I can tell you the truth now. All of it.”
I looked at her again, trying to reconcile the woman who held me through nightmares and packed me lunches for school, with the one who’d hidden something so pivotal. Maybe both versions could exist at the same time. People were complex, after all.
“I loved him,” I murmured. “I still do.”
She reached out slowly, setting a hand on my knee. “Then there’s only one thing left to do.”
“What?”
“Fight.”
I stared at her, searching for a catch, a condition. But there wasn’t one. Just the quiet, hard-earned honesty of a mother who’d made a mistake and wanted to make it right. I chose to believe she wanted to make it right and to fix things between us.
I looked down at my sketch. At the shadows I’d drawn between them. And I knew what needed to come next.
“I don’t know if I can forgive you for this,” I admitted. The wound was too fresh and deep.
Mom let out a slow breath, her shoulders sinking. “I don’t expect you to. You’ve always held yourself and others to high standards.”
A snort escaped me. “I wonder who I learned that from.”
Her lips curved into the faintest smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. “Kira, I know that I am tough on you.” She picked at the frayed edge of her robe, something nervous in the gesture. “It’s only because I want the best for you.”
“I know,” I said softly, setting the charcoal down beside my sketchpad. “But what you think is best for me isn’t always what I think is best. You have to let me choose for myself, even if I fall.”
“I can’t promise I’ll always understand your decisions,” she said, her voice steadier now. “But I can promise to try.”
Something in my chest loosened—not forgiveness, not yet, but the beginning of it. Like there was a space being made for it.
I gave her a small nod, accepting the offering for what it was: imperfect but real. She stood and reached for the tea she’d brought me earlier, then handed it over again with a quieter sort of tenderness.
“Your father’s making pancakes,” she said after a pause. “He’s out of practice, so if you want to live, you might want to help him.”
I smiled faintly. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
She gave my shoulder a squeeze before disappearing down the hall. I stared at the drawing in my lap—still unfinished, still evolving—and pressed my palm over the page.
The pancakes were, in short, a disaster. Burnt on the edges, gooey in the middle. Basically, the culinary version of a confused identity crisis. But Dad grinned like he’d just whipped up a five-star brunch.
“I’m sick of heart-healthy breakfasts,” he declared proudly, flipping a lopsided pancake onto my plate. “Bring on the sugar and shame!”
Despite the mess, I couldn’t stop smiling.
After breakfast, he settled beside me on the floor, his knees popping as he sat cross-legged. I insisted he get comfortable on the couch, but he wanted to be level with me.
He kept interrupting my sketching with stories from his childhood, like how he and his brothers used to climb the elm tree behind their grandma’s house and toss down persimmons to their cousins. Each memory he shared turned into ideas I could thread into my drawing.
Eventually, I landed on a concept: a split portrait.
Down the center, an elm tree’s trunk divided two scenes.
On the left, a traditional Korean family gathered at a low table, sharing a steaming pot of kimchi jjigae.
On the right, a Western-style backyard barbecue, all red-checkered tablecloths and smoke curling off a grill.
The tones were different—cool neutrals on one side, warm reds and golds on the other—but they blended softly where the tree’s branches stretched wide across the page.
Technically, it looked fine. Especially for something sketched while running on two hours of sleep. But still…
“It’s missing something,” I murmured, frowning at the page.
Dad leaned over, his arm brushing mine. “I think it’s shaping up nicely,” he said with quiet conviction.
I sighed, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. “This is supposed to represent me. Represent our family. And I can’t even get it right.”
“Hey now.” He nudged my shoulder. “You are getting it right. You just can’t always see it when you’re in the middle of the mess.”
That got a laugh out of me, soft and surprised. “Like the pancakes?”
“Exactly like the pancakes.” He grinned. “Burnt edges, gooey center, and still worth every bite.”
I looked at him and the tightness in my chest loosened a little. Dad had always known when to joke and when to be gentle. His love was steady. There were no big declarations, just presence and small kindnesses. Like being here now.
We both turned as Mom stepped into the room, her voice careful. “It’s missing your grandmother,” she said, pausing at the doorway. “And that blue hanbok she always wore when we visited.”
Dad and I both looked at her. Her words carried no judgment, just memory. Softness, too, not a characteristic I was used to receiving from her.
I blinked at the drawing as if the idea had already been there, waiting for her to say it.
“Yeah,” I said slowly. “Right there, in the corner. That’s what it needed.”
Mom gave a small, approving nod before disappearing back down the hallway.
Dad reached over and gave my hand a squeeze. “Your mom would love being in it, too. You know that, right?”
I smiled at him. “She already is.”