His CEO

is it over now?

The ambulance ride was filled with the static sound of the engine and the occasional beep of the heart monitor. Soojin sat by Jihyo's side, her hand resting on her daughter's cold fingers, her thumb brushing gently over Jihyo's knuckles in a gesture she hadn't allowed herself in years. She watched Jihyo's face and felt regret with every shallow breath her daughter took.

The paramedics moved quickly, their voices low and focused as they worked around her. They checked Jihyo's vitals, adjusted the oxygen mask, and monitored the steady but faint rhythm of her heart. Soojin barely registered their presence. Her world had narrowed to the rise and fall of Jihyo's chest. How did we get here? The question played over and over in her mind. Jihyo had once looked at her like she was invincible, the center of her tiny world. How could I betray that? Soojin thought bitterly. The memory of Jihyo's tears on that final day clawed at her heart—the little girl clutching her arm, begging her not to leave, not understanding why her mother couldn't stay. The pain in her daughter's cries had been unbearable then, but Soojin hadn't let herself turn back. She'd convinced herself that her father's world could offer Jihyo a stability she couldn't.

Her fingers tightened instinctively around Jihyo's, her voice breaking in the quiet space between the rhythmic beeps. "I'm so sorry, my love," she whispered, her tears spilling over as she leaned closer.

The night was longer than she imagined, and when Jihyo was transferred to a private room, Soojin was there. She didn't leave her side. Exhaustion pulled at her, but she ignored it, refusing to sleep. She busied herself with small, tender acts of care—adjusting the blanket to keep Jihyo warm, smoothing back her hair, and gently dabbing a cloth over her forehead. Time seemed to blur as the night wore on. Soojin barely noticed the ache in her back from the stiff hospital chair or the heaviness of her eyelids. Her focus was entirely on her daughter, her breaths synchronized with the steady rhythm of Jihyo's.

As morning came, Jihyo opened her eyes slowly, her vision adjusting to the brightness of the sun outside, and the first thing she saw was Soojin, sitting beside her bed, her head resting on the edge of the mattress as she held her hand.

Just as she was about to pull her hand away, Soojin stirred, her eyes blinking open as she lifted her head. Her gaze met Jihyo's, and for a moment, they stayed silent as she searched for the right words to say to her daughter. "I'm glad you're finally awake..."

Jihyo nodded though her expression was still guarded and her walls still stood firmly in place. She didn't pull her hand away, but she didn't lean into the touch, either. "Why are you here?" she asked coldly.

Soojin's lips trembled, but she forced a small smile, her hand tightening just slightly over Jihyo's. "I... wanted to be here for you," she replied. "And to take care of you... we were so worried about you."

Jihyo looked away, her gaze fixed on the sterile white walls. A part of her wanted to accept the comfort her mother is letting her feel and to also allow herself the peace of letting go, but the scars she left were too painful to ignore. Still, she didn't move her hand.

Then, Soojin's voice broke the silence, quiet and hesitant, almost as if she was afraid to disturb the peace that had settled between them. "Your doctor told me that you passed out because of exhaustion," she whispered. "You've been pushing yourself too hard."

Jihyo could feel the defensive words rising in her throat, but she swallowed them back, too tired to start another argument. Instead, she let out a quiet sigh. "Thank you," Jihyo murmured, her voice barely audible, each word carrying the weight of years spent shouldering burdens alone. "Because I didn't have the luxury of someone looking out for me back then."

Soojin tried to prevent her tears from spilling over as she listened to her daughter's words, each one a painful reminder of the consequences of her choice. She reached out, her hand trembling as she tried to touch Jihyo's cheek, but Jihyo flinched away, the movement instinctive, a reflex born of years of hurt. "I know, dear," she choked out, her voice breaking.