Divorce Contract C73

Chapter 73

At Yoon Jaeseon’s reply, Seo Dohyeon opened his eyes and stared blankly into the void. After a moment, he straightened from where he had been leaning and ran his gaze over himself, as though to take stock. His appearance was disheveled in a way wholly unlike his usual composure.

“Prepare my clothes.”

With that brief command, he returned to the ward. His eyes lingered a moment on the clock, then on the sleeping Go Igyeol, before he exhaled a sigh he could not restrain. Seated close to the bed, he looked upon Igyeol’s half-hidden face, his gaze catching on the loosely fastened gauze, and his brow furrowed. It seemed Igyeol could not help but touch it again and again. The corners of his eyes, never dry of tears, were damp even in sleep. Dohyeon reached out, brushing the moisture clinging to Igyeol’s lashes, and watched the faint crease of his brow. Was even such a touch abhorrent to him now? To reach out to him was enough to make Dohyeon’s own heart ache.

His fingers clenched tight upon the quilt, the nails ragged, the tips crusted with blood. He had taken on a new habit of gnawing at his skin. He heard voices that did not exist, and now he saw visions as well. Out of fear that the child would be kept from him—or worse, taken away—he fought to conceal his resentment and forced gratitude instead. At times, when his disgust leaked through and could not be hidden, he grew stricken with guilt; his moments of blame were fleeting, while those spent begging forgiveness stretched long.

He spent mornings gazing listlessly at the sky, waiting only for the hour when he might see the child. When that time ended, so too ended his day, his memories cut short. Even when their eyes met unawares, his gaze was hollow, unable to hold anything at all.

Dohyeon knew well how it had come to this, yet no path back appeared before him. And thus another day passed, filled with helpless dread.

“…Go Igyeol. Igyeol.”

His voice circled at the edges of Igyeol’s ears, muffled by the gauze, only to fade into silence.

Once a day, when the time came to visit the child, Dohyeon woke him. Bleary-eyed, still chasing dreams, Igyeol tugged the quilt up the moment he saw who it was.

“It is time to visit the child.”

“…I wish to see the baby… but what if the child is frightened by me? Sometimes the baby opens his eyes…”

“He will not be afraid.”

“…How can you know? What if I seem frightening in his eyes? What if he hates me… what if he finds me foul with stench…”

As his voice grew fainter, Dohyeon’s hand slackened upon the quilt. What stench could he mean? Igyeol carried only the sweetest of scents. With a sigh, Dohyeon brushed aside the hair fallen beneath his brows and searched the room. Finding nothing at hand, he drew a handkerchief from his jacket.

“Would this suffice?”

“……”

He showed it to Igyeol, who turned his back, and gently drew the quilt down. Igyeol’s thin shoulders quivered. Dohyeon folded the handkerchief into a triangle and tied it about his face, careful not to touch skin. When he stepped back, Igyeol opened his eyes. His small face was entirely hidden, only his eyes peering out between long strands of hair. Assured that the child would not see him thus, he found the strength to lower his feet from the bed. Bearing the distaste of Dohyeon’s supporting hand, he forced one unsteady step after another, holding himself together for the one moment he could not forgo—the hour he might behold his child.

The nurse who saw him descend was startled, but without comment draped a gown about him. She could only wonder what new sorrow compelled him to cover his face so completely. Her gaze lingered with pity, though he remained unaware.

“We fed the child the colostrum you expressed. I feared the baby might refuse, but he drank well. Is it not a blessing?”

“…Yes. Then… then he is not in pain?”

From behind the handkerchief, his eyes alone betrayed his worry. The nurse’s heart softened, and she nodded. She watched him stand a step back, eyes fixed on the infant in the incubator, before leaving again with sorrow heavy in her chest. His condition worsened each time he came.

“The baby is not in pain. He has grown so much. At this pace, he will soon be strong enough to leave the hospital.”

“…That is a relief.”

“His weight has increased greatly too. Next week you may be able to try kangaroo care. You will finally be able to hold him. Truly, he is thriving. You need not worry so much.”

But Igyeol’s ears, dulled, caught only the words he is thriving. His heart could not release its burden; his fears rolled on, snowballing without end.

“Are you not going to a postpartum care center?”

“…No.”

“It would be good if you did. The programs help recovery—”

“……”

As his silence grew, the nurse’s voice dwindled. Igyeol’s eyes shone, fixed upon his child’s tiny hands and feet, the closed eyes, the flushed skin, the downy hair. Beautiful. So beautiful, even today. His ruined hands lifted, stroking the incubator’s cover, and the nurse blinked back tears.

“Your child is truly admirable, is he not.”

“…Yes. He is admirable. Because of him… I endure.”

The nurse turned aside, dabbing discreetly at her eyes. But the thirty minutes allotted fled swiftly, and soon it was time to part. After bidding the child to be cared for, Igyeol stepped out, sniffling. At once Dohyeon approached from where he lingered at the entrance. Nothing untoward had happened within, save for his wet eyes. Dohyeon exchanged courtesies with the nurse and guided him from the ward.

Each time the elevator moved, his ears filled with a dull pressure, yet he dared not raise a hand. The cheerful chime at their floor was accompanied by pain, but he endured. Dohyeon stepped out first, and Igyeol followed. A man standing there greeted Dohyeon, unnoticed by Igyeol, who also failed to mark the guards standing like sentinels, stationed to protect him. Such things no longer entered his sight.

By the time they returned to the ward, even his ears had grown accustomed. Seated on the bed’s edge, handkerchief still hiding his face, Igyeol replayed the vision of his child. Suddenly, he sensed someone before him and flinched backward.

“Forgive me. I did not mean to startle you.”

“…Wh-who are you…?”

“Ah, you must be startled indeed. I am Park Gihyeon.”

In a gentle tone, the man offered his name and extended a card. Upon the polished paper, in neat black script, was written: Psychiatrist Park Gihyeon. Igyeol’s hand fidgeted at his ear as his eyes traced the letters, then lifted again to the stranger.

“Why… why have you come here?”

“Psychological care is one of our obstetric programs. Even those who do not attend postpartum centers are visited for periodic consultations, to prevent melancholy after birth.”

“…I… I am quite all right…”

His eyes darted about; his hands twisted upon his lap.

“Then I am glad. And truly, when I say ‘consultation,’ it is nothing so grave. Ten minutes, perhaps, of simple talk. Any subject at all—weather, hospital food, even complaints of your husband, if you like. From the moment one learns of a child’s conception until the day of its birth, countless resentments arise, and it is natural.”

With a black notebook in hand, Park Gihyeon smiled warmly, his tone gentle and composed, slowly easing the air.

“When I had my first child, even holding her was difficult. She was so small, I feared harming her. Watching her, I was anxious beyond measure. I would spend whole days wondering if such a tiny being could truly endure this harsh world.”

“…You… you have a child?”

“Yes, two. Shall I show you? They are very dear.”

Peeking timidly from behind the cloth, curiosity overcame Igyeol, and he nodded. He fretted whether the man found his scent unpleasant, yet leaned forward all the same. Park Gihyeon deftly opened his phone, revealing an album brimming with photographs of his children, his smile radiant with joy.

“My eldest is a daughter, the second a son.”

“…They do not resemble you.”

“Indeed, how unjust it is! But look closely at the younger one—don’t you think his eyes are a little like mine?”

“…Perhaps.”