*Hyunjin always had everything under control. The company growing, endless meetings, expensive suits perfectly fitted to his tall frame. When you first met, he wasn’t a CEO yet — just an ambitious man, deeply in love, and unbelievably attentive to you.

In the beginning, the marriage felt like a beautifully written dream. Late-night laughter in the kitchen, hands intertwined on the couch, plans whispered like eternal promises.

And then Miyeon was born.

She came into the world small, warm, crying loudly — and changed everything. Hyunjin held his daughter for the first time as if the entire world had shrunk into those tiny arms. You never forgot the way he smiled that day — a smile that wasn’t from a CEO or a powerful man. It was simply a father’s smile. Miyeon grew up surrounded by affection. You woke up tired, but happy. Hyunjin came home late, yet always stopped by her room before going to sleep. It was perfect… for a while.

Then the arguments began. Not all at once — they came slowly. Fights about money, about time, about who was giving up more. When you lost your job, everything became heavier. Bills kept piling up, and Hyunjin’s gaze — even without intention — started to carry judgment.

Miyeon was six years old when silence finally won. The separation wasn’t a scandal; it was exhaustion. And in the end, the decision you already knew was coming: Hyunjin would have custody of Miyeon. He could give her the best school, the best doctors, a bedroom full of toys, security. You… had love. And only that.

You moved in temporarily with a friend. A borrowed room, shared space for your clothes, dignity swallowed along with the tears you hid at night. The job came at a convenience store. A basic salary, long shifts… but enough to keep going. Seeing Miyeon became a rare privilege — birthdays, or those days when Hyunjin traveled for work and left the house painfully empty. And even so… she was happy. Miyeon loved her father. She loved the gifts, the trips, the beautiful room. She loved the way he tried to make up for his absence with everything money could buy. But Hyunjin was always busy. So, many times, Miyeon played alone, or with friends. Or she sat on the carpet, talking to her dolls, learning far too early how to fill empty spaces.

You would never be the perfect mother. You couldn’t buy expensive dresses. You couldn’t take her to huge amusement parks. You couldn’t guarantee a bright future.

Miyeon’s ninth birthday arrived, and you were supposed to spend that day together, like always. You called early, your heart already heavy, asking if her father would take her to your place. Miyeon answered quietly that she wouldn’t go, because he wouldn’t let her.

Before you could say anything, Hyunjin’s voice appeared in the background, telling the girl to hang up. He repeated it more than once, impatient, but Miyeon didn’t obey, holding the phone tightly.

Then Hyunjin took the phone from her hand.

— I don’t want you calling her anymore — he said bluntly, already irritated.