"Okay, maybe a little," I admitted…
She laughed, and I laughed with her. That moment—simple banter, soaked in spring sunlight and sweet crumbs—shouldn't have meant much. But somehow, it stayed with me.
Maybe because joy like that once felt unreachable.
Maybe because I used to believe I didn't deserve it.
Funny how a smile in the present can tug on something buried deep—a thread that leads back to a time I thought I'd forgotten.
It makes me think back. Back to that night, when it all started.
I was 18.
The dinner table was set like any ordinary night. My mother, Hatori Asuka, moved with practiced grace, laying out plates of steaming curry and rice—my father's favorite. The air was rich with spices and the quiet familiarity of home. A few side dishes, some pickled radish, and miso soup. It was the kind of scene you'd think nothing of… unless you knew what was about to come.
I always enjoyed eating with them every day, since that's when I got the chance to hear Dad tell stories about his days at the company and listen to my mother talk about caring for the plants in the little greenhouse beside our house. There was a quiet rhythm to those dinners—a warmth that wrapped around the table like a soft blanket. But the mood that night was different. Uncanny, even.
Usually, when Dad saw the curry and rice, he couldn't help himself. He'd already have served himself a plate before the rest of us even sat down. But that night, he just sat there, staring at the food with a dark expression I didn't understand at the time.
Even though five years have passed, I still vividly remember the bitterness on his face. It carved itself into my memory like a scar. We all helped ourselves to the food, unsure of what was going on. Mom, sensing something was wrong, gently asked him if the curry didn't taste right. Then it all exploded.
"How could I enjoy food made by the wife who cheated on me?" he roared.
The room froze.
For a moment, it was like time stopped.
Mom's eyes widened in disbelief. "I would never do that," she said. ""After all the care you gave me during my treatment—how could you believe I'd do this?"
But he was already on his feet, eyes red with rage. His hand struck her face so hard she collapsed to the floor. Dishes clattered, and my heartbeat surged in my ears.
It all happened in front of me. I didn't move. I didn't say a word.
Guilt? That's too small a word for what I felt. I hated myself for freezing, for being unable to protect her. She slowly stood up, steadying herself with one trembling hand on the table. "I always stay at home," she said, her voice shaking. "I only go out for groceries. You know that."
But he was already pulling out a stack of photos. He threw them on the table like evidence in a trial. From where I stood, I saw enough to know what he was accusing her of. The photos showed a woman—someone who looked exactly like Mom—holding hands with a man, sometimes even kissing him, near places we often visited. Our favorite store to buy groceries.
"I don't know who that is," she whispered. "That's not me. It could've been edited. Or someone pretending to be me."
But Dad wasn't listening. His voice cracked with something worse than anger: betrayal. "I gave up everything for you," he said. "The company's expansion plans, the investments—they all went into your cancer treatment. And this is how you repay me?". Mom tried again, softer this time. "Someone's trying to break our family apart. Can't you see that?"
But he wouldn't hear it. And then, the final blow: "We're getting a divorce."
After that, my memory goes blank. I think my mind tried to protect itself by forgetting.
Two weeks later, the divorce was finalized.
I wanted to stay with Mom. I told him I wanted to. But Dad insisted I live with him. "You're not staying with that traitor," he growled. "You're my son." I was barely an adult, legally still under his custody. He had the final say.
Six months passed. I kept asking for Mom's contact information more times than I can count. I was still worried. She was still recovering. But Dad always refused. Every time I brought her up, it ended with yelling. Sometimes worse.
And then, things started to change.
His secretary, Minase Nanami-san, began coming to the house more often. At first, I thought it was for work. But after a while, she stayed late. Sometimes overnight. Her lipstick would linger on the wine glasses the next morning.
I wanted to ignore it. I wanted to believe it was harmless. But my gut said otherwise.
Still, I focused on my career. I told myself I had to take care of Dad now. For Mom. She'd asked me when she left the house—to look after him. "Even if he's harsh," she'd written, "He's still your father. Promise me, take good care of him."
So I did.
For now, I've been focusing on my career. I'd been working since I was sixteen. Thanks to an acceleration program at the Android Designing Academy, I was fast-tracked into the industry. By eighteen, I transferred to Kyoei Androids, a facility I'd dreamed of joining for years. I also had a tight knit group of friends while studying at Singaporean Academy of Modern Knowledge, Arts, and Expertise.
But everything crashed again the night Dad invited Nanami-san to dinner.
He was practically glowing. "Satoru," he said, beaming, "we're getting married next month."
My blood ran cold. Words caught in my throat. I didn't say anything. I just stared at him. At her. Nanami-san smiled at me, smug and victorious. Thinking back, they'd been seen together even before the divorce. I'd overheard whispers from delivery staff and employees. I ignored them. I didn't want to believe it. But now I couldn't deny it.
And still, I said nothing. I smiled. I congratulated them.
Three months after the wedding, at another dinner, something shifted again.
Dad's face was stiff. Nanami-san grinned like a wolf in silk. "Satoru," he said suddenly, "have you noticed the company's in decline?"
I blinked. "What? Really?"
He nodded slowly. "Do you know why?"
I didn't answer.
"Because the company funds went somewhere else. To someone else." I already knew what he meant. "Mother," I said quietly.
"Exactly. That woman," he spat. "And since you're her son—and since you have a stable job—you're going to pay her debt. From now on, 50% of your salary goes into the company."
I stood up, stunned. "You can't be serious. That's not my responsibility!"
But he just got up, too. Walked over. Pointed his finger at my face. "Do as I say, or leave."
I couldn't believe it. But then, I remembered again Mom's letter she left for me.
"Take care of him, Satoru. Stay with him, you're the only one I can depend on. I'm sorry to have it end like this, Satoru."
How could she still care about this man after everything?
And yet, I promised her.
So I agreed.
I gave in. That was the moment the door closed behind me, and the cage locked. I became a prisoner in my own life. Not by bars or chains—but by guilt dressed as duty, love warped into debt, and a promise that clipped my wings before I even knew how to fly. And in that moment, my world began to quietly rot from the inside out.
That was when it all started.
The beginning of my life in the cage that I let myself into.