Mr. Homewrecker

Chapter 2. Ungrateful

I woke up to my phone ringing.

Groggy, I scrubbed my face hard with my right hand while my left fumbled for the phone on the nightstand. I squinted at the screen before answering.

Mom.

I was just about to greet her with my usual joking, half-sleepy tone when I heard her sob.

“This isn’t true… right?”

My chest tightened instantly. “Mom—are you okay?” I asked, suddenly wide awake.

She didn’t answer. Instead, her crying broke completely. “I’m at your house, Noah. But there are other people living here. A family. They said you sold the place to them…”

I couldn’t speak.

All I wanted was to be wherever she was, drop to my knees, and beg her forgiveness. But I was stuck miles away, frozen, useless.

“Mom—” I tried.

“I’m disappointed in you, Noah,” she said, her voice calm but wrecked, like she was holding herself together by sheer will. “This is my fault. I spoiled you too much. I don’t want to hear your reasons. Don’t call me Mom again until you can stand on your own and succeed. Starting today, everything I gave you—everything—I’m taking it back.”

She didn’t yell. That somehow made it worse.

Then the line went dead.

Ellen Kim—my Korean-American mother—ended the call and blocked my number.

That was the moment it really sank in.

I was on my own.

I swore to myself right then that I’d earn back her trust, no matter how long it took. It wasn’t the money or the comfort I missed. It was the idea that she might see me as an ungrateful son after everything she’d sacrificed to raise me alone.

That thought wrecked me.

I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated, then dragged myself out of bed and headed to campus for my final exams. I decided that day to take a leave of absence for a few semesters—work, save up, buy back the house I’d sold, and somehow reclaim the car my stepdad had given me.

I’d always been smart. But I’d never really worked for money before.

I started small—posting ads for digital illustrations and short animated videos on social media and e-commerce platforms. I also offered private tutoring for elementary and middle school kids. I wasn’t lazy. I just wasn’t used to life flipping upside down so fast.

At one point, I worked myself sick. Fever, exhaustion, the kind that pins you to the mattress for days. Lying there, I hated myself for every reckless decision I’d made. And stupidly, I caught myself thinking that if things were still okay, my mom would’ve shown up with soup and medicine, telling me to sleep.

I missed her more than I could admit.

Eventually, reality hit. I couldn’t keep living in a luxury apartment on my current income. So I left. After hours of searching online, I found a small studio rental on the outskirts of Los Angeles. The price was low because it was far from downtown. Not glamorous, but livable.

A month later, an unknown number called me.

It was my stepdad.

He asked to meet, and I agreed. When he saw me, his face fell. I’d lost weight. A lot of it.

Even though I wasn’t his biological son, he treated me like one. He hadn’t told my mom he was seeing me—she would’ve exploded—but his worry outweighed his fear. He gave me advice, pressed some cash into my hand, and bought me a motorcycle so I could get around more easily.

I thanked him. I really did. And somehow, that only made the guilt heavier.

I parked my bike in front of my rental, locked the gate, went inside, stripped off my clothes, and headed straight for the shower.

I’d been living here for two weeks now. No real problems—except learning how to cook for myself. Turns out, cooking your own meals is way cheaper when you’re broke.

That night, sleep didn’t come easily. Guilt has a way of sitting on your chest. When I finally gave up, my phone said it was almost 6 a.m.

I sighed, changed into workout clothes, and went out for a run.

Summer mornings in LA are already warm, even before the sun fully rises. The air smelled like dust and fresh bread from a nearby bakery. The neighborhood was awake—moms bargaining with street vendors, cars inching through traffic, kids heading to school.

I turned into a quieter residential area to avoid the main road. When I started getting tired, I slowed to a walk and headed back.

That’s when I saw her.

In one of the front yards—lush with potted plants and blooming flowers—a woman was filling pots with soil. Light brown curls framed her pale face. When she turned around, her oval face and sharp nose caught me completely off guard.

I’d never been close to my classmates. Back then, I preferred people from cafés and racing circles. But after my fall from grace, most of them disappeared. I was an only child—being alone wasn’t new to me.

I’d never had a serious relationship either. Dating just to pass time felt pointless. Sure, there were girls before, but nothing real.

This woman—now gently petting a black cat that had wandered over—was different.

‘If it’s fate, she won’t go anywhere,’ I told myself, shaking my head to snap out of it before continuing my run.

That day, I worked nonstop on a short animation project for a local musician’s music video. After cooking and eating two packs of instant noodles with eggs, I passed out from exhaustion.

The next morning, I left the house at the same time, hoping—just a little—to see her again.

I took the same jogging route. The sky was overcast, the streets quieter. And there she was—sitting on her porch, the same black cat in her lap.

Still, I didn’t approach her. I wanted her to notice me first. How—I’d figure that out later.

After a few more hours working on the animation, I took a break, ordered food, then headed to one of my tutoring jobs. On the way back, even though my place was only fifteen minutes away, I deliberately took a longer route.

Just to pass her house again.

We hadn’t even spoken.

And somehow, I already missed her.