School passed in a blur. Lessons came and went; I didn't really pay attention to any of them.
Late July rolled in, and summer break finally started. I had a ton of free time ahead, plus a long to-do list for my debut mixtape.
I'd be working 5 and a half hours at the bar each shift—somehow dodging the full 8—with Tetsu and Maestro backing me up against the manager.
One Sunday, while I was wasting time on the couch, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I stared at it for a second… then answered.
Why not. Maybe the universe finally decided to entertain me.
"Hello?"
A small inhale on the other end. Careful. Measured.
"Takumi… it's Mom."
A pause. Soft, almost rehearsed.
"Could we talk for just a minute?"
Ah. Of course. That kind of entertainment.
My expression went flat.
"Well," I said lightly, leaning back into the couch, "to what do I owe the honor? Did Her Majesty schedule me between royal engagements?"
"Takumi… please. Can we meet somewhere? Just to talk?"
She said please.
That was new.
I stared at the wall for a second. Interesting development.
"Where?"
"A café. You don't have to pay for anything," she added quickly. "It'll be my treat."
Ah.
So now we're negotiating.
I almost laughed.
You think I'm still 13? You think a pastry and a latte is going to smooth over years like it's pocket change?
I make my own money now.
"Fine," I said, voice even. "Text me the place."
If anyone's paying, it won't be you.
You don't get to buy access to me.
This is my moment.
I pulled on a gray Burberry zip-up, the fabric smooth and heavy on my shoulders. Black Amiri jeans. Off-Whites, clean.
Nothing loud. Nothing flashy.
Just expensive enough.
I checked my reflection once.
Not bad for someone who was told to be realistic.
I showed up at the café right on time.
She was already there — purple dress, heels, makeup flawless down to the last detail.
Like she was going on a date.
Yikes.
"Takumi!" she called the second she spotted me, waving like we were in some happy reunion story.
Before I could react, she hurried over and pulled me into a hug.
It lasted a second. Maybe less.
Then she let go.
I just stood there, stunned.
"Hello, Mom," I managed, a little breathless, trying to pull myself together faster than I actually could.
"Come on," she said with a tight little smile. "We have a lot to talk about."
"Ladies first," I replied evenly, holding the door open for her as she stepped inside.
She gave me a once-over as we stepped inside, eyes lingering a second too long on the hoodie, the jeans, the shoes.
"Those clothes look expensive… Takumi, how do you even have that kind of money?" she asked, visibly thrown.
I smiled — not warm, not kind. Just amused.
"We'll get to that," I said lightly. "You look good too, Mom. Very… corporate."
"Thanks," she replied, after a beat.
It wasn't a compliment. She knew it.
And so did I.
She folded her hands on the table, fingers fidgeting just a little.
"I… I was worried," she admitted, her voice softer than usual. "About whether you were eating properly… if you had a safe place to sleep… if you'd made any rash decisions about school."
A pause, her eyes flicking up to mine.
"I'm… relieved to see you're doing okay."
I nodded, listening to her. Classic Mom. Worried half her life away, but trying not to show it. Relieved I'm "doing okay," like that's the whole report she needed.
"I'm a rapper on the rise now," I said, not even trying to sugarcoat it.
I pulled out my phone and opened my YouTube channel. Her eyes immediately landed on "Lil V€xxx feat. Forsaken – Tokyo." The view count blinked at 2.5 million.
"And you're making money from this?" Mom asked, a hint of shock in her voice.
"Yeah… got my own apartment and everything," I said, flat.
"Can I… listen to it?" she asked, hesitating.
"Suit yourself," I replied.
She plugged in her earbuds, brows furrowed in concentration as the song played.
When she looked up, her voice softened. "It feels… very you."
She… recognized me. For the first time in years. And somehow, that made me feel empty.
"Yeah," I said, shrugging. "That's the point."
Mom froze, eyes welling up.
"Honey… it's not that I'm not proud. I just… don't know how to show it."
"You never do," I said flatly.
A waiter approached the table, balancing a tray.
"Black coffee for the young man… latte for the lady… and your pastries."
He set everything down gently.
Mom ordered a strawberry mille‑feuille — delicate layers, powdered sugar, the kind of dessert that looked like it belonged in a magazine.
Of course she did.
Mine was a simple almond croissant.
Flaky. Plain. No nonsense.
She gave a small, awkward smile as she adjusted her napkin.
"I, um… didn't know what you liked anymore," she admitted. "So I just picked something safe."
I tore off a corner of the croissant, the crumbs scattering across the plate.
"Safe," I echoed. "Yeah. That sounds about right."
She flinched — barely — and stirred her latte a little too long, the spoon clinking against the cup.
For a moment, neither of us touched the pastries.
They just sat there between us — two completely different worlds on matching white plates.
Anyway, I could tell my words landed like a stone in still water. No splash, no ripple—just a quiet sink.
She blinked fast, trying to keep the tears from spilling. One escaped anyway, carving a thin line through her foundation.
"I thought… if I gave you space, you'd come back when you were ready," she whispered. "I thought that was the right thing. I thought—"
"You thought wrong," I cut in, voice still even, almost bored. "Space isn't what I needed. Belief was. You picked the one thing I begged for and gave me the one thing I never asked for."
Her hands trembled on the table. She folded them tighter, knuckles white.
"I know," she said, so quiet I almost didn't hear it. "I know I failed you. Every day since you left, I've known."
I watched her. Really watched.
For once, the mask was slipping—not dramatically, not with sobbing or apologies tumbling out. Just… cracking. Small, hairline fractures in the woman who used to smooth her apron and say "he's always been difficult."
And somehow, seeing it didn't feel good.
It didn't feel like victory.
It just felt… late.
"I'm not here to forgive you," I said finally. "I'm not here to hate you either. I'm here because you called. And I answered."
She looked up, eyes glassy, searching my face like she was looking for the little boy she used to know.
"I don't expect forgiveness," she said. "I just… wanted to see you. To know you're alive. Breathing. Eating. That you're… okay."
"I'm alive," I said. "The rest is debatable."
A weak, watery smile tried to form on her lips and failed.
"I'm glad you're doing well," she said. "The music… the clothes… you look… strong."
"You taught me to be strong," I shrugged, more statement than accusation.
Then my eyes narrowed slightly.
"And you, Mom… have you been doing okay since I left?" I asked, the edge in my voice sharper than I intended.
Concern hiding behind the words.
"…No," she said simply. Almost too simply.
"I… missed you. A lot. Okay, you might not believe me. Kaede misses you too, Takumi—she's just a child. Please… don't take it out on her."
I'm not going to. Kaede apologized properly. She even has her number unblocked—unlike you, calling from some random unknown.
She was at my show. She had no obligation to come, but she supported me. Even when I dissed her favorite idol.
You're the one dragging Kaede into this, just to get a reaction out of me.
Fine, I'm glad you missed me—would've been pointless if you didn't suffer a little. Me? I missed you too. Not that you'll ever know.
"You're the one dragging Kaede into this because you can't just say what you actually feel."
I inhaled slowly.
"I talk to Kaede. I just didn't want you knowing about it. And the fact that you had to hide behind her instead of speaking for yourself…"
I met her eyes fully now.
"…kind of proves I was right."
Her hands tightened in her lap.
"I wasn't…" she started — and stopped.
Because she was.
Her gaze dropped to the floor.
"I didn't know how to talk to you anymore," she admits quietly. "Every time I tried, I imagined you hanging up. Or worse… sounding polite."
That last word cracks.
"I thought if I mentioned Kaede, you wouldn't shut me out."
She finally looks back up at him. No defensiveness left. Just exhaustion.
"I wasn't trying to manipulate you. I just… didn't know how to reach you without losing you again."
She looked at me, that familiar softness in her eyes — the kind that always felt like a blessing and a curse at the same time. Like I was both the light of her life and the scar she couldn't heal.
"Takumi… you're my son," she said quietly, her voice trembling just a little. "I love you. I just… I've never been very good at showing it."
Yeah.
I know.
I love you too.
That's the problem.
It sits there in my chest, quiet and inconvenient. Heavy enough to matter. Not strong enough to fix anything.
But she'll never hear it from me.
Not now.
Maybe not ever.
Because love doesn't erase what happened. And apologies don't rewind time.
I can't pretend none of it shaped me.
She's my mother. That fact doesn't change.
And neither does this—
I don't know how to love her without hating her.
So I settle for neutrality. For distance. For a version of myself that feels nothing on the surface.
It's easier that way.
"It's not that I don't care," I said quietly. "But what exactly am I supposed to change? If my reputation tanks tomorrow, you'll just do what you've always done."
Mom flinched slightly, like the words landed harder than I'd intended.
For a moment she didn't answer. Her fingers traced the rim of her coffee cup, eyes lowered.
"…You're probably right," she admitted softly.
She looked up again, meeting my gaze with a tired honesty that felt unfamiliar.
"I have made choices based on fear before. On what people would think. On what seemed… safe."
Her grip tightened around the cup.
"But that doesn't mean I never cared about you. It just means I wasn't brave enough when it mattered."
A small pause.
"If your reputation fell tomorrow… I can't promise I'd suddenly become a perfect mother."
Her voice trembled slightly.
"But I would still want to know if you were eating. If you had somewhere warm to sleep. If you were… safe."
She exhaled slowly.
"Maybe that's not enough for you. Maybe it never will be."
"…But it's the truth."
Well, in that case… take what I've got to offer or leave it.
"Yeah," I said after a moment. "I'll always let you know where I am. I owe you that much."
I leaned back slightly in the chair.
"Just don't act like everything's okay between us. It's not."
A brief pause.
"But… if we find some kind of common ground," I added, shrugging lightly, "maybe that can change. In time."
Mom didn't speak right away.
Her shoulders loosened just a little, like she'd been holding her breath this whole time.
"…That's more than I expected," she said quietly.
A faint, fragile smile touched her lips.
"Thank you, Takumi."
"You welcome, Mom," I said, shrugging.
For a moment, there was silence between us.
Then, the waiter returned with the bill, bowing politely.
"Whenever you're ready."
Mom reached for her purse.
I reached faster.
I slid a ¥3,000 bill onto the tray without even looking at the total.
"Keep the change," I said.
The waiter blinked — actually blinked — like I'd just spoken another language.
"Ah— are you sure, sir?"
"Yeah."
He bowed again, deeper this time, and hurried off.
Mom stared at the tray, then at me, her expression cracking for the second time that afternoon.
"Takumi… that was more than enough."
"I know."
"You didn't have to—"
"I know."
Her lips parted, but no words came out.
Because she understood exactly what that gesture meant.
I wasn't the kid she used to scold about wasting allowance money.
I wasn't the boy she told to "be realistic."
I wasn't someone she could buy with a pastry and a latte.
I was someone who could pay for both of us without blinking.
Someone who didn't need her wallet.
Or her approval.
Or her permission.
And she felt it.
We stepped outside together, the late‑July heat settling over us like a blanket.
For a moment, neither of us said anything.
Mom smoothed her dress, a nervous habit she probably didn't even realize she still had.
"…Thank you for meeting me," she said quietly.
I nodded once.
"Next time," I said, keeping my voice even, "you don't have to call from a private number. Just call."
She blinked — surprised, maybe even relieved — but the reaction was small, careful, like she was afraid to breathe wrong.
"O‑Okay," she murmured. "I… will."
An awkward silence stretched between us.
She opened her mouth like she wanted to say something else, then closed it again.
"Take care, Takumi," she said finally.
"You too."
We stood there a second longer — two people who used to be family, now orbiting each other like strangers who remember being close.
Then she gave a tiny, uncertain wave and walked toward her car.
I watched her go.
Didn't call out.
Didn't stop her.
Didn't look away either.
When she turned the corner, I exhaled slowly and shoved my hands into my pockets.
That was enough for today.