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It has been one week of living with Minjeong and Jimin is already writing her will in her head.
Not because Minjeong is going to kill her. That would almost be preferable. No, Minjeong is the kind of person who will leave Jimin alive and suffering, the human equivalent of a dripping faucet. A slow torture.
For example: Minjeong hums when she cooks. Not real songs, not even melodies. Just half-formed noises, like a dying refrigerator, and she does it for forty-five minutes straight. Minjeong also drinks water and then leaves the glass exactly two inches from the sink, as if she is playing a game called “almost.” She sets her phone alarm to the most violent default ringtone and then snoozes it four times every morning, so Jimin’s day begins with the sound of robot murder at six a.m.
One week. And already, Jimin is positive that the six-month arrangement will end in one of two ways: either she strangles Minjeong with a dish towel, or she walks out and lets the family deal with the fallout.
Except she cannot walk out. Because her grandmother would rise from the grave to scold her, her grandfather would leave her out of the will, and Minjeong would smirk like she just won another childhood competition, and Jimin would rather eat broken glass than let Minjeong win again.
So she stays. She suffers. She catalogs every offense in her mental folder labeled Reasons Minjeong is the Worst. That folder is very full, and she has only lived here for seven days.
Jimin does not even know when her resentment toward Minjeong truly started. Was it when they were six, the very first time their families had dinner together, and Minjeong pushed her off the bed so hard she lost a tooth? Or was it the time Minjeong decided to feed the dog when it was absolutely not feeding time, then blame Jimin for it, and Jimin’s grandmother scolded her so harshly she cried in the bathroom for twenty minutes? Or maybe it was the infamous eraser incident, when seven-year-old Minjeong stole hers in the middle of an activity, and they ended up in a tug-of-war match across the desk until the teacher yelled at both of them like they were future criminals.
The truth is, Jimin cannot point to one singular moment. Minjeong has been ruining her life in installments, like a very slow subscription plan for misery.
There was the time Minjeong convinced her to climb the guava tree in the backyard, only to leave her stranded on a high branch when Minjeong suddenly decided she was “done playing.” Jimin cried until an uncle had to fetch a ladder. There was the time Minjeong borrowed her roller skates without asking and came back with a scraped knee, then told both families it was Jimin’s fault for “not teaching her properly.” Jimin had to apologize. To this day, she has no idea what she was apologizing for.
In grade school, Minjeong once slipped a note into Jimin’s bag that said “I like you” with a badly drawn heart, just so she could loudly announce in class that Jimin was “passing love letters.” Jimin nearly died from embarrassment. In fourth grade, Minjeong ruined her science project by pouring glitter into the papier-mâché volcano, because she thought it “looked too boring.” The lava eruption was spectacular, but the teacher deducted points for “inappropriate materials.” Jimin’s mother grounded her for a week.
By high school, Jimin thought she was finally free, since they had different friend groups. She thought wrong. Minjeong still managed to make her life hell by telling her admirer that she’s already dating Jimin. One sentence. One casual lie. Suddenly Jimin was the villain in a romance novel she did not sign up for. Everyone glared at her in the hallways. One time, someone actually pushed her into a locker and hissed that she should stop “stealing other people’s girls.”
And then there was the talent show debacle. Jimin auditioned with a piano piece she had been practicing for months. Minjeong, two acts later, did the same piece, but faster, with dramatic hand flourishes. The judges called it “a playful homage.” Jimin called it emotional sabotage.
Or the time Minjeong tripped during gym class and managed to grab Jimin’s shirt in her fall, dragging her down with her. Jimin’s skirt flew over her head in front of half the basketball team. She considered transferring schools that day.
It was always like that. Small moments of disaster, orchestrated by Minjeong’s existence. Jimin sometimes wondered if Minjeong had been sent into her life specifically to test her patience, like one of those mythical trials heroes had to endure before they could claim their destiny. Only instead of battling monsters, Jimin was battling Minjeong’s smug smile and suspiciously perfect test scores.
By the time Minjeong left for college abroad, Jimin thought she was finally free. No more Minjeong. No more curses. Four full years of peace. And then she came back. And then Jimin’s grandfather decided to engage them like this was the plot of a historical drama. And now here they are, one week into cohabitation, and Jimin is haunted by every single memory like she is living in a horror anthology written by Minjeong herself.
It all started at dinner.
Their families have these get-togethers twice a month, and usually Jimin survives them by clinging to her rice bowl and pretending she does not exist. They laugh, they gossip, they argue about politics, and Jimin floats in the background, grateful that Minjeong is never there. Except this time, the door opened and in walked Minjeong like she was some victorious war general returning from battle. She was tan from overseas sun, dressed like k-drama second lead, and smiling as if she had not spent an entire childhood orchestrating Jimin’s slow descent into madness.
Jimin’s first thought was, Okay, breathe. Maybe she changed. Maybe she matured. People change. She shoved kimchi into her mouth like it was holy water and watched Minjeong hug all the relatives. For most of dinner, things were fine. Minjeong talked about her studies, about adjusting to being back in LA, about how airplane food was still a war crime. She even poured water into Jimin’s glass without spilling, which was suspiciously polite. For a few fragile minutes, Jimin let herself believe she might actually survive this dinner.
Then her grandfather cleared his throat.
That noise. That low, theatrical throat-clear that meant doom was incoming.
“As you all know,” he began, smiling like Santa Claus with a secret. “Both families have been close for generations. It only makes sense that we strengthen this bond.”
Jimin’s spoon froze midair. She had a terrible, prophetic feeling.
“Therefore,” he continued, “we have decided that Jimin and Minjeong will be married in the future.”
Silence. Thick, suffocating silence. Then Jimin choked on her rice and nearly died at the table.
“I am sorry, what?” she croaked, pounding her chest.
Across the table, Minjeong had also stopped breathing. “Excuse me?” she said, so sharp it could have sliced the beef.
Their mothers immediately started the calming routine, patting arms, whispering that it was all decided, no need to panic. Both fathers raised glasses like they were already toasting the union.
“Absolutely not,” Jimin said. “No chance. I would rather walk into traffic.”
Minjeong snapped her head toward her. “As if I want this either. Do you think you are my dream girl? You cannot even cook rice without burning it.”
Jimin slammed her chopsticks down. “One time. I burned rice one time.”
Minjeong leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “You set off the smoke alarm.”
“And you set off every disaster in my life since age six,” Jimin shot back.
Their grandfather waved a hand. “You two will learn to get along. You always did fight like an old married couple.”
“Because she is unbearable,” Jimin said.
“Because she is impossible,” Minjeong said at the same time.
Their voices overlapped, sharp and ridiculous, like a badly rehearsed duet. The room descended into chaos. Uncles laughed. Aunts nodded approvingly. Someone actually clapped. Jimin felt like the ground had tilted and she was sliding straight into hell, handcuffed to Minjeong.
“Enough,” Jimin’s mother finally said, smiling with that terrifying calm only mothers possess. “Why don’t we make it simple. You two can live together for six months. If nothing comes of it, then we will let it go. No marriage, no pressure.”
The table lit up with approval. Relatives nodded like this was the most brilliant compromise of the century. Everyone agreed. Everyone except Jimin and Minjeong, who were still locked in a heated argument about who ruined the dog’s diet ten years ago.
“Six months? Absolutely not,” Jimin barked.
“I refuse to breathe the same air for six months,” Minjeong snapped back.
The argument spiraled so fast the rest of the table gave up trying to intervene. At some point, Jimin was yelling about the glitter in her volcano project and Minjeong was shouting about the time Jimin “stole” her pencil case, when her grandfather slammed his chopsticks down.
“That is enough,” he said, voice booming. The entire room froze. His eyes cut through them like a general about to send soldiers into battle. “You will move in together. Starting next week. Final decision.”
Jimin’s jaw dropped. Minjeong’s fork clattered onto her plate.
“No,” they said in unison.
“Yes,” her grandfather said, tone brooking no argument. He returned to his soup as if he had not just sentenced two people to mutually assured destruction.
The relatives went back to eating, chatting about side dishes, while Jimin and Minjeong sat in stunned silence, glaring at each other across the table. It was official. Six months in the same house. A nightmare written in bold letters.
Now Jimin is trying to savor the five minutes of peace left before Minjeong wakes up for her morning jog. She does it every day. She sets her alarm to the sound of digital murder, stomps around upstairs like she is rehearsing for a tap dance competition, and then jogs at sunrise like some kind of disciplined soldier. And every single morning, before she even leaves the house, she finds a way to personally ruin Jimin’s life.
Jimin sits at the kitchen table, sipping her coffee in silence, counting the minutes. One. Two. Three. Four. And right on cue, at five, a loud bang erupts upstairs, followed by Minjeong groaning like she has been shot. Jimin exhales the kind of sigh that could be translated into her life is officially over if this continues for six months.
Minjeong appears on the staircase, but instead of launching into her usual stunts, she heads straight for the front door. Her face looks like she just got news that her company went bankrupt overnight. Jimin blinks at her, a little surprised, but decides not to comment. If silence is possible, Jimin is not about to ruin it.
Peace lasts all of ten seconds.
“Yu Jimin!” Minjeong’s voice tears through the morning like a siren. “Come here! I told you not to leave your milk box on the doorstep after getting the milk!”
Jimin slams her cup down and marches to the door, glaring. “What milk box? I did not order milk.”
Minjeong points at the doorstep like she just discovered a dead body. “So it magically appeared? A box of milk just fell from the sky?”
“Yes! Maybe! That is more believable than me ordering milk I did not want.”
They argue like this for several minutes, voices rising, until a sound cuts through them. A wail, high pitched, and unmistakable.
They both freeze.
Jimin takes one step back, then another, until she is half hiding behind Minjeong’s shoulder like a coward offering up a human shield. “What was that.”
Minjeong glares at her. “Do you hear yourself? It is obviously a baby crying.”
“Do you hear yourself? It could be a monster pretending to be a baby.”
The wail comes again, louder. Jimin grips Minjeong’s sleeve like they are in a horror movie.
Minjeong sighs. “Do you think I am deaf?”
“Yes,” Jimin says quickly.
Minjeong drags her toward the basket anyway. “We are checking.”
“No. Absolutely not. What if there is a tiger in there?”
“The basket is the size of a grocery bag. A tiger would not fit.” Minjeong’s tone is clipped, rational, cruel. “Now, if you said snake, that would have been a better guess. But you said tiger, which is wrong, so congratulations, you are the one who has to check.”
“That is not how life works.”
“That is exactly how life works.”
Minjeong shoves Jimin forward, and Jimin squeals like she is being sacrificed to an ancient god. She takes one reluctant step, then another, while Minjeong keeps encouraging her with the fake sweetness of someone sending a child onto a stage play. “Go on. You are so brave. Keep going. Almost there.”
Jimin glares over her shoulder. “If I die, tell my grandfather it was your fault.”
“Gladly.”
With no choice, Jimin reaches out. Her hand trembles as she lifts the white cloth covering the basket. She closes her eyes, prays for mercy, and pulls it back.
Silence. Then a tiny noise.
It is, indeed, a baby.
A whole human baby, squirming inside the basket like a very expensive fruit delivery.
Jimin’s eyes go wide. Minjeong’s jaw drops. They stare at each other, then at the baby, then back at each other again.
And then they both spiral.
“Oh my god,” Jimin shrieks. “It is a baby.”
“What kind of psychopath leaves a baby on a doorstep,” Minjeong yells, waving her arms like she can fan away the problem.
“Do not touch it!” Jimin hisses.
“Why not!” Minjeong snaps.
“What if it explodes!”
“It is not a bomb, it is a baby!”
The baby starts crying again, louder this time, and both of them recoil like the sound is a death curse.
“Do you hear that,” Jimin whispers, eyes wide.
“Of course I hear it,” Minjeong shouts. “I am not deaf!”
“Then you pick it up.”
“You pick it up.”
“Absolutely not.”
The baby wails louder. Jimin clutches her head, pacing in tiny frantic circles. “We cannot even keep houseplants alive. We are going to kill this baby.”
Minjeong pinches the bridge of her nose. “We are not going to kill the baby.”
“Yes we are. We are disasters. The baby can probably sense it already.”
And just like that, their morning spirals into full-blown chaos, with a baby screaming on the doorstep and two grown women arguing like toddlers about who has to pick it up first.
It took them thirty minutes to get the baby inside. Thirty whole minutes of Minjeong fighting with herself about whether she should just go on her jog and let Jimin handle it, and Jimin panicking because she knows if Minjeong leaves, the baby will probably die in her care and then she will have to live with the guilt forever.
Jimin spends that time hunched over her phone, searching: how to pick up a baby without breaking it. They find a Youtube video of a cheerful mom explaining it step by step. The video is so clear, so calm, so soothing that they actually watch the entire eight minutes twice. They scroll through the comments section just to make sure it is legit, and of course there are hundreds of people vouching for it, saying “Saved my life” and “I was so scared but this worked perfectly.”
Still, neither of them dares to try. Because what if they drop it. What if the head wobbles wrong. What if this is the moment they ruin their lives forever.
So they do the only thing that makes sense. They carry the entire basket inside.
Now the baby is asleep, tiny fists curled up, chest rising and falling in that weirdly perfect way babies breathe. It cried itself out and looks peaceful, almost angelic. Minjeong sits on the couch staring down at it with the reverence of someone who just saw God. Jimin paces in frantic loops across the living room, muttering, “We are so dead. We are so dead. It is over for us. Goodbye, freedom. Goodbye, sanity. Goodbye, life.”
After a long silence, Minjeong says softly, “It looks like those baby angel statues your grandmother used to collect when we were kids.”
Jimin freezes mid-pace and shoots her a look. “You mean the ones she screamed at us for breathing near? I do not think so. It looks more like it is part of the Sonny Angels gang.”
“Stop calling the baby ‘it,’” Minjeong snaps.
“What else am I supposed to call it?” Jimin demands. “We do not even know the gender.”
“Then we should check.”
Jimin gasps like Minjeong just suggested murder. “Check? Are you insane? Is that not scandalous? This baby is not even ours.”
Minjeong rolls her eyes. “It is literally a baby. We are not invading its privacy, we are figuring out if it needs pink clothes or blue ones.”
“That is sexist.”
“That is practical.”
Finally, after a ridiculous standoff, they agree to “just take a peek.” Jimin covers her face with both hands while Minjeong tilts the blanket carefully.
“Congrats,” Minjeong says flatly. “It is a girl. What a gender reveal party this is.”
Jimin peeks through her fingers. “Great. Amazing. Someone left us a baby girl like she was a pizza delivery.”
The baby stirs. And then, as if on cue, starts wailing again. A high-pitched, glass-shattering cry that makes Jimin yelp and clutch her phone like it is a lifeline.
She immediately types how to make a baby shut up.
Within seconds, she is on Reddit, scrolling through threads. Minjeong leans over her shoulder. Then her face contorts in disbelief.
“Are you serious? You are reading about The Sims 4.”
Jimin jerks the phone closer to her chest. “It says here babies like when you interact with them. This is useful advice.”
“You moron, this is not a game. Search something actually helpful.”
“I am trying,” Jimin snaps, but her thumbs are shaking too hard to type properly.
They both stop when the baby lets out another scream. Louder this time. More urgent.
Minjeong says, “We need milk.”
Jimin says, “And diapers. And clothes. And probably like a stroller. And wipes. And—”
“Basically everything,” Minjeong cuts in, eyes locked on the basket.
They both stare down at the baby, who stares back at them like the world’s tiniest dictator, ready to destroy them if they make one wrong move.
Minjeong, after ten more minutes of the baby screaming and Jimin pacing like a malfunctioning Roomba, suddenly gets an idea. “I am calling Yizhuo,” she announces, already dialing.
The phone rings and Yizhuo’s voice comes through bright and suspicious. “Why is there a baby crying in the background? Wait, is that your new alarm? Did you invent a new way to annoy Jimin?”
Minjeong’s face crumples. “Do not joke right now. I am about to cry too. Come to our house immediately. Bring your girlfriend. Or a whole army. Or the president of the United States. We need manpower.”
“Manpower?” Yizhuo repeats, laughing.
“Just come!” Minjeong yells and hangs up.
Moments later, the door bursts open and in come Yizhuo and her girlfriend Aeri, shoes barely off before they stop dead in their tracks. The scene greets them like the opening shot of a tragic indie film: a baby screaming in the middle of the living room in a basket, Jimin on the verge of collapse, Minjeong sitting cross-legged on the floor staring into the void.
“Oh my god,” Yizhuo says. “There is actually a baby.”
She does not hesitate. She walks straight over, scoops up the baby like it is her daily side hustle, and sways gently until the baby’s cries soften. Jimin’s jaw drops. Minjeong’s jaw drops too.
Aeri’s gaze slides to Jimin, eyebrows raised. She looks like she cannot decide if she should laugh or call the police for her friend’s safety.
“How long has she been crying?” Yizhuo asks, rocking the baby like a professional.
“Forever,” Minjeong groans. “She is probably starving. We have nothing for babies. The only baby in this house is me.”
Jimin lets out the loudest groan in human history. “You said it, not me.”
Yizhuo ignores them. She looks at Aeri. “Take Jimin to the store. You need to buy formula, bottles, diapers, wipes, onesies, blankets. And grab a stroller if you can. Just get everything. Do not come back empty-handed.”
Aeri nods and tugs Jimin toward the door ready to go not knowing that the baby section run would be a disaster.
Jimin walks into the baby aisle like Alice falling into Wonderland. She immediately grabs a onesie with a cartoon carrot on it. “This is adorable. We need five of these.”
“That is not on the list,” Aeri says, checking her phone where Yizhuo texted the essentials.
“It does not matter, the baby deserves this carrot onesie.”
Next, Jimin grabs a stuffed dinosaur taller than her torso. “Perfect. Babies love dinosaurs.”
“Also not on the list.”
“Do you want the baby to hate us? Because this is how the baby hates us.”
Meanwhile, Aeri is steadily loading the cart with formula, diapers in two sizes just in case, bottles, pacifiers, wipes, burp cloths. She is efficient, laser-focused. Jimin is chaos incarnate, squealing over pastel socks shaped like bears.
By the time they reach the checkout, the cart looks like two entirely different people shopped it: one side practical survival kit, the other side an explosion of unnecessary cuteness.
Back at the house, Yizhuo has managed to get the baby to sleep on her shoulder. Minjeong sits across from her, staring like Yizhuo just performed a miracle.
“How did you even know how to do that?” Minjeong asks.
Yizhuo shrugs. “My sister has a kid, right. I used to carry him around whenever she was busy prepping bottles or folding laundry.”
Jimin and Minjeong exchange a look that says exactly one thing: they are doomed without her.
🍼
The first night is war.
At first, it feels manageable. The baby sleeps in the bassinet in the corner of the room, swaddled in one of the pastel blankets Aeri bought. Minjeong insists on keeping the lights on low because she read somewhere that total darkness is bad for a baby. Jimin insists on turning them off because she read somewhere else that darkness is good for establishing sleep cycles. They compromise by leaving one lamp on and glaring at each other until the baby stirs.
At two in the morning, the crying starts again. Piercing. Endless. The kind of sound that makes your bones rattle.
Jimin bolts upright. “Bottle. We need a bottle.”
Minjeong stumbles out of bed, hair a disaster, tripping over the dinosaur Jimin bought. She grabs the formula and starts mixing it like a bartender under pressure. Powder everywhere, water splashing over the counter.
“This is not what Yizhuo told us to do,” Jimin hisses, holding her phone with the screen glowing like divine instructions. “It literally says here you have to warm the bottle first.”
Minjeong glares. “This is how Yizhuo told me to do it. Shake, test, feed. Easy.”
“See this?” Jimin shoves her phone screen in Minjeong’s face, almost dropping it into the half-prepared formula. “The internet says warm first, then swirl, then feed. Not shake.”
“The internet also said you can feed babies cow’s milk until Yizhuo yelled at you for almost trying it.”
“That was one bad article!”
The baby screams louder. Jimin winces, hands flying to her ears. Minjeong slams the bottle on the counter and shouts, “Fine, you do it then!”
Jimin scrambles, trying to follow the Youtube mom’s method step by step. She tests the milk on her wrist, squeals because it is too hot, pours half out, adds more cold water, shakes it so aggressively the lid almost flies off.
Minjeong is pacing in the background. “That is not swirling. That is a tornado.”
“Do you want to do it?” Jimin snaps.
“No, you said you had a system!”
They end up thrusting the bottle into the baby’s tiny hands together, neither willing to admit the other might be right. The baby gulps for about ten seconds before spitting milk all over Jimin’s shirt.
At three a.m., the baby cries again. Diaper duty.
They both stand over the bassinet like it is a bomb. Jimin holds the new diaper in two fingers like it is radioactive. Minjeong grips the wipes with visible terror.
“I’ll hold her legs, you wipe,” Minjeong says.
“No, no, no. You wipe, I hold,” Jimin counters.
“Yizhuo said legs first.”
“Google says wipe first.”
The baby kicks violently, as if mocking them both.
In the end, they compromise. Jimin holds one leg, Minjeong wipes, then they switch. It is messy. It is loud. At one point Jimin shrieks because she got something suspiciously wet on her sleeve. Minjeong laughs until she cries.
By four in the morning, the baby is finally asleep again. The room looks like a battlefield. Diapers everywhere, half-empty bottles on the table, the dinosaur toppled over like it died in combat.
Jimin collapses on the couch, whispering, “We are not surviving six months.”
Minjeong flops down beside her, staring at the ceiling. “We are not surviving six nights.”
The baby lets out one tiny squeak in her sleep. Both of them sit up instantly, panicked.
Silence follows. They exhale together, slumping back into the couch.
This is only day one.
By morning, Jimin and Minjeong look like they have been resurrected from the dead and regretted it immediately. Their eyes are bloodshot, hair sticking out at angles, skin pale in the kind of way that screams, “I fought a war and lost.”
That is the exact state Yizhuo and Aeri find them in when they show up, knocking once before letting themselves in.
“Just checking if the baby is still alive,” Yizhuo calls out cheerfully.
Jimin opens her mouth to respond, but before she can, the baby starts crying again. A sharp, earsplitting wail that sends both Jimin and Minjeong bolting up the stairs without a word, like two people fleeing a house fire.
Yizhuo and Aeri are left in the living room, staring at each other. They do not need words. Their eyes have an entire conversation.
When Jimin and Minjeong finally return, it looks like a scene out of a tragic sitcom. Minjeong is cradling the baby so carefully you would think one wrong breath might set it off. Her face is tight with concentration, like she is diffusing a bomb. Jimin trails behind, holding a plush dinosaur in one hand and peering over Minjeong’s shoulder, wide-eyed, as if she expects the baby to sprout fangs.
Yizhuo and Aeri exchange another look. Something passes between them, like they are mentally checking off boxes on a private list.
Then Yizhuo gets the baby from Minjeong, and says, “How about we watch her for the day? You two look like you are about to evaporate into thin air.”
Jimin hesitates. Her lips press into a line. “I do not want to dump this on you.”
But Minjeong is already halfway up the stairs, yelling over her shoulder, “I just knew from day one that Yizhuo is my soulmate. Aeri can choke, I don’t care.”
“Excuse me?” Aeri yells back, but Minjeong is gone.
Jimin takes a moment longer, then sighs, dragging her feet toward the staircase. “I hate this, but I hate it less than being awake.” She disappears after Minjeong.
The house falls quiet. The baby makes a few soft noises, then settles against Yizhuo’s shoulder, tiny fists tucked under her chin.
Aeri leans against the arm of the couch, watching her girlfriend sway the baby like it is the most natural thing in the world. “You know what I just realized?” she says softly. “They’re not fighting.”
Yizhuo smiles without looking up. “They’re too busy trying not to kill the baby to fight.”
“Maybe she is their unspoken truce.”
“You mean referee.”
Aeri laughs. “Either way, it is kind of nice. I have never seen them this quiet together.”
Yizhuo finally looks up, eyes warm. “Remind me to thank the baby later.”
The baby sighs in her sleep. Aeri leans over and kisses Yizhuo’s cheek, quick but soft. The room feels lighter, calmer. For the first time since Jimin and Minjeong moved in, it feels like maybe everything is going to be okay.
But of course, they were wrong.
The peace lasted only as long as Jimin and Minjeong stayed unconscious. The second they came downstairs, still yawning and hair sticking up like cartoon villains, the fighting resumed.
“You hogged all the blankets,” Minjeong snapped, rubbing her arms dramatically.
Jimin shot back, “I hogged them because you got three-quarters of the bed. You left me hanging off the side like a sock about to fall out of the dryer.”
Across the room, Yizhuo and Aeri shook their heads in perfect synchronization. Disappointment had never looked so rehearsed.
Then the baby started crying again.
Aeri raised a hand like she was delivering a lecture. “You cannot argue in front of her. It is not good for the baby.”
So Jimin and Minjeong immediately switched to whisper-yelling.
“You are impossible,” Jimin hissed.
“You are delusional,” Minjeong hissed back.
Aeri slapped her palm to her face so hard the sound echoed.
By dinner, the next battle began.
“I will cook,” Jimin declared, puffing out her chest like a hero about to sacrifice herself. “You look after the baby.”
Minjeong almost dropped the rattle in her hand from laughing. “You cannot cook, Jimin. Last time you tried, you served raw chicken and called it ‘medium rare.’”
“It was a bold culinary experiment!”
“It was salmonella on a plate!”
The baby started crying again, forcing both of them to freeze like two actors waiting for a director to yell “cut.” Eventually they settled on ordering food, both pretending that had been the plan all along.
Their days blurred together, not because they were calm, but because every single one was a circus that refused to end.
In the mornings, they woke up already arguing.
“I changed her diaper last night,” Minjeong said, tugging her hair into a bun that looked more like a bird’s nest.
Jimin scoffed, still half under the blanket. “You did not. I did.”
“You literally fell asleep on the loveseat with the wipes in your hand.”
“That was strategy. I was resting my eyes between wipes.”
“Resting your eyes? You were snoring.”
By afternoon, Minjeong always tried to enforce nap time.
“She needs structure,” Minjeong said, gently laying the baby down.
“She needs freedom,” Jimin argued, crouched next to the bassinet. “Look at her in here. She is thriving.”
“She looks like a sock that missed the dryer cycle.”
“That is called cozy. Ever heard of it?”
Evenings were the worst. Jimin once tried to unfold the stroller in the driveway and lost so badly she ended up trapped inside it, arms flailing.
“You are supposed to push the red button,” Minjeong cackled, filming her.
“I am pushing it!” Jimin shouted, tangled like a pretzel.
“No, you are pushing your dignity down the drain.”
“Delete that video right now.”
“I am posting it on Instagram.”
At night, they hovered over the crib, whispering lullabies off-key.
“You are singing too loud,” Minjeong hissed.
“I am harmonizing.”
“You are not Ariana. Tone it down.”
The baby finally fell asleep, not because of them but despite them.
Still, the fights began to change. They were no longer cruel, just ridiculous.
“Do not put the dinosaur on that side,” Minjeong scolded one afternoon.
“Excuse me, you are not a dinosaur whisperer,” Jimin snapped back.
“She kicked her legs when I moved it left.”
“She was kicking at you, not the dinosaur.”
Or the day Jimin found Minjeong folding the baby’s onesies inside out.
“Why would you do that?” Jimin demanded.
“It is a design choice,” Minjeong said calmly.
“It is chaos.”
“It is personality.”
“You are the only person who could gaslight me about laundry.”
But when the big things came, their tone shifted without either of them noticing.
When the baby spiked a fever, Jimin immediately said, “Hospital. Now.”
Minjeong was already grabbing the diaper bag. “Go warm up the car.”
At the clinic, Jimin squeezed Minjeong’s hand so tightly Minjeong hissed, “I am not the one getting the shot.” But she never pulled away.
And when the baby laughed for the first time, bright and clear and shocking, Jimin gasped. “Did she just—”
“She did,” Minjeong whispered.
Neither of them claimed credit. They just stood there, grinning like idiots, like the world had tilted but maybe in the right direction for once.
🍼
The panic set in on a Tuesday morning when Jimin opened her phone and saw the message from her grandfather.
Dinner with the families tonight. 7pm please don’t be late.
She screamed so loud Minjeong dropped the spoon she was using to stir the formula.
“What now?” Minjeong demanded.
“Dinner,” Jimin wheezed, waving her phone like a warning flare. “Dinner with both families at seven tonight.”
Minjeong blinked. “So?”
“So?” Jimin’s voice cracked. “We never told them about the baby. They think we are just failing to cohabitate quietly. They don’t know we’re also failing as parents!”
The baby chose that moment to let out a tiny squeak from her bassinet, as if to say hi, I am the problem.
Minjeong pressed both hands over her face. “We are dead. Absolutely dead.”
“Maybe we can hire a babysitter?” Jimin suggested.
“Who? Who in their right mind would babysit for us? You would have to offer hazard pay.”
By 6:45 p.m. they were still pacing in the living room, the baby cooing happily like she was in on the joke. Yizhuo had offered to watch her, but Jimin kept mumbling, “What if she tells your mom? What if she takes a photo? What if the baby goes viral before we even make it to dessert?”
At 6:55 p.m., they shoved on semi-presentable clothes, left the baby with enough formula to feed a small army, and bolted out the door like they were running from a crime scene.
Dinner started politely enough. The usual greetings, the forced smiles. Jimin’s grandfather asked about their well-being. Minjeong’s mother asked about the house. Jimin’s mom leaned in and asked with thinly veiled interest, “So, how is it going? The living arrangement?”
Jimin opened her mouth to answer, but Minjeong cut her off. “It is fine. Totally fine. Smooth sailing even.”
Jimin turned her head so slowly it was almost cartoonish. “Smooth sailing?” she repeated under her breath.
Minjeong hissed back, “Do you want them to know we spent last night whisper-yelling about a dinosaur plushie?”
Across the table, Jimin’s grandfather raised an eyebrow. “What was that?”
“Nothing!” they chorused.
They laughed too loudly. Everyone else looked suspicious.
A waiter brought out appetizers. Minjeong grabbed her water glass like it was a lifeline. Jimin kept fiddling with her napkin, her brain running a highlight reel of every mistake she had ever made.
And then Jimin’s mother asked, “So, what has been the biggest challenge of living together?”
Both of them froze. Their eyes met. They had two choices: tell the truth and admit a baby had been delivered to their doorstep, or lie through their teeth.
Minjeong smiled, sharp and bright. “She snores.”
“I do not snore,” Jimin hissed, kicking her under the table.
“Yes, you do,” Minjeong shot back, smiling wider.
Their families laughed politely, completely unaware that just eight miles away, a baby was being taken care of by Yizhuo in their house, waiting for her two incompetent guardians to come back.
By the time they stumbled back into the house, Jimin was peeling her boots off like she had survived a war. Minjeong was muttering under her breath about how she should have faked food poisoning.
The baby was still alive, thankfully, snoozing in her bassinet with one tiny fist in the air like she had been protesting in her sleep. Yizhuo and Aeri were on the couch, looking far too calm for people babysitting an abandoned infant.
“Finally,” Yizhuo said. “Do you know how many bottles I had to warm tonight?”
“It was two,” Aeri pointed out.
“Two too many,” Yizhuo shot back, then turned to Jimin and Minjeong. “So. What’s the plan?”
Jimin dropped onto the couch, burying her face in her hands. “I do not know. I thought we would survive dinner without blowing our cover. That was the only plan I had.”
Minjeong threw her clutch on the floor dramatically. “We cannot keep this up. The lying, the hiding. My mom looked at me in the eye and secretly asked about our house and living arrangement and I had to smile and talk about the curtains when really I wanted to say ‘oh by the way we are raising a child.’”
Aeri tilted her head. “Why did you not just tell them?”
“Because,” Jimin snapped, lifting her head, “they will think we are even more of a disaster than they already do. Who gets a baby dumped at their doorstep? Who? That’s sitcom-level catastrophe.”
Minjeong crossed her arms. “Exactly. We are already the clown show of this family. Add a baby and it is the circus.”
Yizhuo leaned forward, her expression shifting from smug to serious. “But you have a responsibility. This is not about your pride or what your families think. This is about the baby. You cannot keep pretending she does not exist.”
The room went quiet except for the faint sound of the baby sighing in her sleep. Jimin looked at Minjeong. Minjeong looked at Jimin. For once, neither of them had a snappy comeback.
Aeri broke the silence, voice softer. “You do not have to figure out everything tonight. But hiding her forever is not an option. If you want help, you need your families. If you want answers, you need your families. And honestly, they might surprise you.”
For the first time in weeks, Jimin saw something in Minjeong’s eyes that was not pure exasperation. It was fear, sure, but also something like agreement.
“We should tell them,” Minjeong said finally.
Jimin exhaled, long and shaky. “We should tell them.”
Yizhuo clapped her hands together like she had just solved world hunger. “Great. Family meeting, baby edition. You can do the dramatic reveal like maybe get a smoke machine.”
Jimin groaned into a pillow. Minjeong muttered something about regretting every life choice that led her here. The baby stirred in her sleep, blissfully unaware that she had just forced two sworn enemies to unite on one terrifying front: coming clean to their families.
🍼
By the time the doorbell rang, Jimin was on her third glass of water and Minjeong had opened and closed the curtains eight times. They both looked like they were preparing to confess to a crime. They decided to let their moms know first before anyone else in the family, labeling it “one step at a time.”
“They are our moms,” Jimin whispered, pacing. “We should not be this terrified.”
“They are our moms,” Minjeong corrected, “which is exactly why we should be this terrified.”
The door opened to reveal their mothers, smiling like this was just another casual visit. Bags of fruit and containers of side dishes in hand. Jimin thought she might pass out.
“Why did you invite us here?” Jimin's mom asked, glancing between them.
“Because,” Jimin started, then faltered. Her throat felt dry. “We… there is something you should see.”
But before they could even move toward the living room the baby let out a sharp cry. Both mothers froze. Minjeong winced. Jimin squeezed her eyes shut.
“Was that…” Minjeong’s mom tilted her head. “A baby?”
The jig was up. They shuffled their moms into the living room, where the baby blinked up at them from her bassinet. Jimin felt her pulse in her teeth.
There was a long silence before Jimin’s mom spoke. “Whose baby is this?”
“Not ours,” Jimin blurted.
“Obviously not,” her mom snapped, eyes narrowing. “Did you report this to the police?”
Minjeong and Jimin exchanged a look. Both shook their heads.
“You did not even call the authorities?” Minjeong's mother gasped. “What were you thinking?”
“We were thinking… survival,” Jimin muttered. “We were thinking she needed food, and clothes, and someone to pick her up without dropping her on her head.”
The moms sat, setting down the fruit and the side dishes like this was about to turn into a long night. Concern settled over their faces, but not anger. Not yet.
“Is it a he or she?” Minjeong’s mom finally asked, leaning over.
“She,” they answered at the same time, like two kids reciting multiplication tables.
“What’s her name?” Jimin’s mom’s turn. Her eyes narrowed, suspicious, as if they were about to admit they had been calling the baby ‘Toothbrush’ all week.
Jimin scratched her neck. “Uh. Baby? Baby girl…”
Her mother recoiled so hard she nearly dropped the tangerines she had been peeling. “You do not even have a name for her?”
“It didn’t come up,” Jimin said weakly.
“We were occupied,” Minjeong added, like that explained everything.
“Occupied with what?” Jimin’s mom demanded.
Jimin flung an arm toward the bassinet. “With keeping her alive. You try googling how to hold an infant at three in the morning while she is screaming like she is auditioning for a horror movie.”
Minjeong nodded solemnly. “Exactly. We have been busy keeping her alive. Naming her seemed… advanced.”
Both mothers exchanged a look. The kind of look that said our children are idiots but at least the baby is breathing.
“Listen,” Jimin’s mother said, voice firm. “This is not a joke. Raising a child is not about impulse or sentiment. It is work. Every single day, it is work. It is responsibility. You cannot walk away when it gets hard. You cannot decide one morning that you are tired and give up. You cannot take this lightly.”
Minjeong was quiet, her gaze fixed on the baby. Jimin expected her to crack a joke, to deflect. Instead, Minjeong straightened her shoulders. “I want to keep her.”
The room fell silent again. Jimin’s jaw actually dropped. She turned to Minjeong, blinking like she had just spoken in another language. “You what?”
“I want to keep her,” Minjeong repeated. “She was left with us for a reason. Maybe it was random, maybe not. But she is here. And I cannot imagine handing her over like she is just… a problem to be passed along. She is not a problem. She is a person.”
For the first time, Jimin saw Minjeong without all the sharp edges, without the sarcasm. This was someone she had never met before. Someone soft and determined at the same time. It made something shift in her chest.
Minjeong’s mother leaned forward. “If you are serious about this, you have to understand what it means. It means no shortcuts. No half-effort. You cannot just love her when it is easy. You have to stay up when she is sick, you have to work harder when you are already exhausted. And you have to do it together.”
Together. The word landed heavy between them.
Jimin’s mom nodded. “If you want to keep this baby, you have to make peace with each other. You cannot fight like you always do. You cannot make her grow up in a house where every day is war. Children see everything. They feel everything. You need to give her stability. You need to give her safety. And that means the two of you have to grow up too.”
Jimin looked at Minjeong again, expecting resistance. Expecting her to fight. Instead, Minjeong was still staring at the baby like she was already hers.
And in that moment, Jimin thought maybe they could do it. Maybe they could really be the people this tiny human needed. The idea terrified her. It also lit something up inside her she did not want to name.
By nighttime, they had convinced their mothers not to spill the secret yet. It took an hour of pleading, half-promises, and excuses that they needed time. Time to find a. Time to decide if this was permanent. Time to see if someone came back for her in a week. They bargained for a week. After that, they would tell Jimin’s grandfather, which in their world was basically telling God.
The house was quiet now, the kind of quiet that hummed in your ears. The baby slept on the coffee table, resting on a mountain of folded cloths Jimin’s mom had arranged like she was staging a magazine shoot. Jimin and Minjeong sat on the sofa, not looking at each other, not moving.
Finally, Jimin broke the silence. “Did you really mean it? When you said you want to keep her?”
“Yes,” Minjeong’s answer was immediate, like she had been waiting for the question.
“You did not even hesitate.”
“Why should I? She is here. She needs someone.”
“That someone doesn’t have to be us.” Jimin shot back. “We could hand her over to the proper people. People who actually know what they are doing. Do you even understand what this means? We cannot just… decide to keep her like she is a stray cat.”
Minjeong turned to her, eyes sharp. “If you want out of this you can. But the baby stays with me.”
The words hit Jimin like a slammed door. For a second, she almost laughed because they sounded like a couple fighting over custody in a divorce court drama. But Minjeong’s face was serious. Determined.
Before Jimin could respond, the baby started crying. At first, it was the usual wail. Then it escalated. Louder, longer, relentless. They tried everything. Bottle, rocking, the ridiculous swaying dance Yizhuo had demonstrated. Jimin pulled up ten different Youtube videos. Minjeong hummed lullabies like she was losing her mind. Nothing worked.
After twenty minutes of nonstop crying, there was a sharp knock on the door.
Jimin froze. “That is the police.”
“It cannot be the police.”
The knock came again, louder. “Police. Open up.”
“Oh my god it is the police.”
They scrambled to the door like guilty teenagers. When they opened it, two officers stood there, looking unimpressed.
“Evening,” one of them said. “We got a noise complaint. Neighbors say they heard a baby crying for almost half an hour.” His eyes flicked past them into the apartment. “Everything alright in here?”
“Yes,” Jimin squeaked, voice way too high. “Totally fine. Everything is fine. Just a… normal baby night.”
“Just… parenting,” Minjeong added with a smile that looked more like a grimace.
The cops exchanged a look. “This your child?”
“Yes,” Minjeong said firmly at the exact same time Jimin blurted, “No.”
The officers’ suspicion thickened in the air. Minjeong held the baby closer, glaring at Jimin. “You are making us look guilty.”
“You made us look guilty first!” Jimin whisper-yelled back.
The baby screamed louder. The officers’ recoiled, and exchanged a look. “So?”
Jimin’s brain short-circuited. She felt Minjeong’s hand slip into hers and nearly jumped. The grip was firm, practiced, almost natural. Minjeong leaned in, eyes wide with faux domestic bliss.
“This is our baby,” Minjeong said sweetly. “We are just figuring things out. First-time parents, you know how it is.”
Jimin caught on, her face splitting into a smile so sugary it could rot teeth. “We love her so much,” she added, squeezing Minjeong’s hand like a lifeline. “We barely sleep because we cannot stop staring at her. Right, honey?”
“Right, sweetheart,” Minjeong replied, her voice dropping just enough to send heat crawling up Jimin’s neck.
The officers looked at them for a long moment. Jimin swore she could hear her own pulse. Then one of them nodded. “Alright. Just keep it down. Babies cry, we get it. But try not to disturb the whole neighborhood, will you?”
When the door closed, Jimin yanked her hand back like it had burned her. “What the hell was that?”
“What was what?” Minjeong asked, all faux innocence.
“The whole honey and sweetheart thing.”
Minjeong smirked. “It worked, didn’t it? They believed us.”
Jimin’s chest felt tight, her skin buzzing with leftover adrenaline. She wanted to snap at her. She wanted to kiss her just to piss her off. She did neither. Instead, she muttered, “You are unbearable,” and flopped back on the couch.
The baby had finally quieted, as if she too had been stunned into silence by the performance.
Minjeong leaned against the arm of the sofa, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “Here I thought you did not want to keep the baby.”
Jimin’s head snapped up. “I never said that.”
“You implied it.”
“No, I implied that maybe we are not qualified to be parents, which is a fact, by the way. That is different from saying I do not want her.”
Minjeong tilted her head, savoring the argument like it was her favorite sport. “So you do want her.”
Jimin groaned and threw a cushion at her. “Stop twisting my words. I am saying we have to be realistic. You cannot just decide something this big on impulse.”
“Impulse?” Minjeong’s eyebrows shot up. “This is not impulse. This is instinct. She is here, she needs us, and I am not going to look away from that just because it is inconvenient.”
They were getting louder, closer, their voices bouncing around the small living room. Then the baby stirred. Both of them froze mid-sentence, heads snapping toward the coffee table.
A tiny squeak escaped from the bundle of blankets. They both held their breath like criminals caught in the act. The baby shifted, made another soft noise, and then… silence. Back to sleep.
Jimin exhaled in relief so loudly it felt like deflating. “We almost woke her.”
Minjeong pressed a hand to her chest. “That was terrifying.”
For a moment, they just stared at each other, something unspoken moving between them. Then Jimin sighed. “Truce?”
“For the baby,” Minjeong agreed, voice softer than usual.
“For the baby,” Jimin echoed, sinking deeper into the couch.
The baby slept peacefully between them, tiny and oblivious, while two sworn enemies declared a shaky ceasefire.
The truce lasted exactly eight hours.
At sunrise, the baby’s cries jolted Jimin out of sleep. She stumbled into the bedroom to find Minjeong already standing over the bassinet, arms crossed, glaring at her like she had arrived late to her own trial.
“Your turn,” Minjeong said.
“My turn?” Jimin rubbed her eyes. “We did not establish turns.”
“We should have, and I call this yours.”
“That is not how turns work.”
They bickered in whispers until the baby’s cries edged louder. Finally, Jimin grabbed the bottle with a huff. “Fine. But next time, you do it.”
Minjeong smirked. “Truce, huh?”
“For the baby,” Jimin muttered, rocking the infant.
For the following days, “for the baby” had turned into their favorite excuse.
When Minjeong came home from a grocery run with Jimin’s favorite chocolate tucked into the bag, she said it was because “the baby will need you in a good mood.” Jimin did not argue. She just ate the chocolate with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious rituals, licking her fingers like it was holy water.
When Jimin threw a blanket over Minjeong after finding her asleep on the couch with the baby curled against her chest, she whispered to herself, “for the baby,” like the baby would suddenly catch a cold if Minjeong did. The blanket slipped off anyway. Jimin fixed it three times.
They started cooking for each other too. Jimin insisted on frying eggs in the morning because Minjeong needed energy “to jog and then take care of the baby.” Minjeong insisted on making Jimin tea at night because “the baby does not need you cranky tomorrow.” Both of them pretended to buy the reasoning, but neither of them missed the way the other’s lips quirked like they were sharing a joke that was almost, but not quite, a confession.
Even the arguments began to soften. Jimin snapped once that Minjeong was hogging the blanket again, and Minjeong shot back, “I am keeping it warm for the baby,” though the baby was sleeping three feet away in her bassinet. They both laughed, which was new.
It became obvious one evening when they were folding tiny onesies together. Jimin held up a pink one with a small giraffe on it and asked, “Do you think she likes this?”
“She won’t give a fuck,” Minjeong said, taking it gently from her hands. “But you do. And that matters. For the baby.”
Jimin’s chest tightened at the words. Not because of the baby. Because of the way Minjeong said it, soft and steady, like she had meant to say something else entirely.
The pattern only grew stronger. If Minjeong washed Jimin’s favorite mug before Jimin reached for it, it was “for the baby.” If Jimin carried Minjeong’s jacket in from the porch after she forgot it in the cold, it was “for the baby.” If Minjeong sat up with the baby at three in the morning even though it was Jimin’s turn, she said, “you need to sleep, for the baby.” If Jimin silently tucked Minjeong’s hair behind her ear when it kept falling into her soup, she muttered, “the baby cannot look at your face if it is covered.”
There was a night the baby would not settle. She screamed, tiny lungs shaking the walls, and Minjeong finally sat on the floor with her while Jimin rubbed circles on her back. They were both exhausted, hair sticking to their foreheads, eyes bloodshot. The baby finally hiccupped into silence, and in the quiet Minjeong whispered, “You are good at this. You know that?”
Jimin blinked at her, too tired to summon sarcasm. “I am trying. For the baby.”
Something in Minjeong’s smile twisted Jimin’s stomach, like she had been caught saying something real without meaning to.
Then came the little gestures they did not even label anymore. Jimin taking Minjeong’s phone out of her hand when she was scrolling too late at night. Minjeong sliding the baby monitor closer to Jimin’s side when she had fallen asleep at the kitchen table. Jimin laughing too hard when Minjeong tried to imitate the baby’s noises. Minjeong keeping Jimin’s coffee exactly the way she liked it without asking.
It was creeping into everything, this softness. At first they coexisted, tiptoeing around their hatred and their history like it was a live wire. Then they tolerated. Then they teased. Now they were orbiting each other in a way that felt suspiciously like choice.
Jimin told herself she was only noticing Minjeong’s laugh because it startled the baby less than her own. Minjeong told herself she was only watching Jimin sway with the baby in her arms because she needed to know if Jimin would drop her.
But the truth was simpler. They’re enjoying each other. And both of them would rather choke on their own tongues than admit it out loud. Neither of them said it out loud, but something had changed. The war was over, at least for now. And in its place, something else was growing, fragile and unexpected.
🍼
Jimin’s knuckles were practically the same shade as the steering wheel. White, blanched. Gripping like she was personally holding the car together by sheer will. The baby was strapped in the backseat, silent for once, and Jimin kept glancing at the mirror like she was waiting for her to explode into tears again, just to make everything worse.
“He is going to kill us,” Jimin muttered, eyes locked on the road like it was about to open up and swallow them whole. “Actually, no. He is going to kill me. Then he is going to kill you for being an accomplice. Then he is going to resurrect me so he can kill me again. We should turn around. Let us turn around. Let us go back to the house and pretend this never happened.”
Minjeong was leaned back in the passenger seat, her arm propped on the window like she was on vacation. Her voice was calm in the kind of way that was both reassuring and infuriating. “He's not going to kill us. You are being dramatic.”
“You don’t know him like I do,” Jimin shot back. “He has that face. The disappointed face. I cannot survive the disappointed face again.”
Minjeong tilted her head toward the car seat. “The baby is basically his granddaughter at this point.”
Jimin almost swerved. “What? She is literally not his blood or flesh. Do you even hear yourself right now?”
“Yes,” Minjeong said, maddeningly unbothered. “But families are not only about blood or flesh. Sometimes it is about who is there when you scream at two in the morning and smell like spit up.”
“That is not profound. That is disgusting,” Jimin snapped.
Minjeong smiled. “Disgustingly true.”
Jimin groaned loud enough to make the baby stir in her sleep. She pressed her lips together, whispering an apology under her breath, then hissed, “If he hates us, I am blaming you.”
“Fine. You can blame me. For the baby,” Minjeong said with a grin that made Jimin want to both throttle her and hold her hand.
By the time they pulled into her grandfather’s driveway, Jimin was sweating like she had run a marathon. The house loomed like it was built specifically to intimidate her. Her grandfather was waiting inside, probably sharpening his disappointment face like a knife.
The conversation went exactly how Jimin expected. Nerve wracking.
“What is this?” her grandfather asked, his voice booming when they stepped into the living room.
Jimin froze, the diaper bag slipping down her shoulder. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, then opened it once more like a fish trying to breathe on land.
Minjeong, of course, jumped in. “This is a baby.”
Jimin whipped her head toward her. “Do not say it like that!”
Her grandfather’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you have a baby?”
Jimin’s tongue knotted. She could not find the words, could not string together a story that made sense. She felt like her whole body was one giant stutter.
But Minjeong’s voice was steady. Calm. Almost warm. “She was left with us. We have been taking care of her. And we want to keep her.”
Jimin’s heart stopped at the “we.”
Her grandfather’s gaze bounced from Minjeong to Jimin, back again, like he was trying to catch them in a lie. He asked questions that felt like interrogation: Were they feeding her properly? Did they take her to a doctor? Did they have any idea how much work this was?
Jimin stumbled over every answer. Minjeong caught them like loose puzzle pieces and snapped them into place.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Jimin thought she might faint.
Then her grandfather exhaled, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch. He leaned forward in his chair, studying the sleeping child in Jimin’s arms. “She is not blood,” he finally said. “But she is in your hands now. And if she is in your hands, she is mine too.”
Jimin blinked at him, shocked. Minjeong smiled softly, like she had known this would be the ending all along.
Jimin’s grandfather added, quieter, “Take care of her. Both of you. This is no small thing.”
Jimin nodded mutely, her throat too tight to speak. Minjeong reached over and gently squeezed her wrist. For the baby, Jimin told herself. But her pulse betrayed her.
Back at the house, the baby was asleep in her basket on the coffee table, the living room lit only by a weak lamp that made everything look softer than it really was. Jimin and Minjeong sat across from each other, both leaning forward, elbows on knees, like they were planning a heist instead of trying to name an infant.
“We should name her,” Jimin said, her voice quiet but certain.
Minjeong tilted her head, eyes narrowing like she was testing whether Jimin was about to make a joke out of it. “Alright. What are you thinking?”
“Agnola,” Jimin said, and then held her breath.
Minjeong blinked. “What is Agnola?”
“It is Italian,” Jimin said, her cheeks warming even though she had no reason to be embarrassed. “It means angel.”
Silence stretched between them, then Minjeong smiled. “I like that.”
For a moment, neither of them looked away. The baby made a soft sound in her sleep, a tiny sigh like punctuation. Jimin felt something shift in her chest, not new but uncovered, like dust blown off an old photograph.
She had spent so long telling herself she hated Minjeong. That resentment was the only logical explanation for why Minjeong occupied so much space in her head. Why every memory was tangled up with her. Why every story she told seemed to include Minjeong as the villain, or the antagonist, or the chaos agent ruining her day.
But sitting here, with the baby named Agnola between them and the quiet stretching in a way that did not feel hostile anymore, Jimin realized the truth had always been simpler. She never really resented Minjeong. Not when Minjeong pushed her off the bed and cost her a tooth. Not when she blamed her for feeding the dog. Not when she hijacked her high school crush. Not even when she argued with her until they both lost their voices.
Because if she had truly resented her, she would have walked away. She would not have kept circling back, kept listening, kept orbiting Minjeong’s voice, her presence, her pull. She would not have allowed herself to be annoyed so thoroughly, so consistently, for so many years.
The truth was she had never wanted otherwise.
Minjeong’s gaze softened, like she could see the realization forming on Jimin’s face but chose not to press. Instead, she leaned back, her eyes flicking from the baby to Jimin. “So we are really doing this,” she said. Her voice was quiet, almost tentative. “For the rest of our lives?”
Jimin felt the air shift between them, heavy and fragile all at once. Her chest tightened, not with panic but with the terrifying clarity of wanting something she could not take back. She glanced at the baby, then back at Minjeong, and for the first time in forever, the answer came easy.
“For the baby,” Jimin said.
It should have sounded like a joke, the way it always did when they tossed it back and forth like a shield. But in that moment it landed differently. Like a vow. Like an inside joke that had secretly become a promise.
The baby stirred in her sleep, a small sound breaking the silence, and neither of them moved. They just sat there, eyes locked, both knowing that whatever this was, they had already stepped into it. Together.
For the baby.