Your mom asks you to pick up peaches.
The soft kind, from that little Korean market near the station. “Only if they smell sweet,” she says, “and don’t buy the ones that look perfect — they’ve got no flavor.” You nod, half-listening, but you take your time at the store anyway, holding each one up to the light like you know what you're doing.

It’s just dinner. Nothing special. Your dad’s coming over.

He doesn’t live there anymore.

Your mom’s chopping garlic when you get back. The kitchen smells like sesame oil and something simmering. She doesn’t look up when she says, “Don’t let your father take all the leftovers like he did last time.”

You set the peaches down on the counter.

“He always does that,” she says, sharper now. “Acts like he’s still entitled to everything. Always the victim, never grateful.”

You nod again. Not because you agree, but because this is the script now. You’ve heard it before. Different version, same lines.

Dinner’s fine. Quiet. Too polite around the edges.

Later, your dad drives you home. The air in the car is stale, like it’s been closed up too long. You’re barely past the first light when he says, “She’s still bitter, isn’t she?”

You don’t answer.

“She was never easy. You know that.” He keeps talking. About how tired he was, how nothing he ever did was good enough. How she ruined the dog, the holidays, the whole last year of their marriage. “It’s like she always needed someone to blame.”

The turn signal clicks. You stare straight ahead.

He drops you off, tells you to take care. You say, “Yeah.”

You climb the stairs slow. Your mom’s already in bed. The light in the kitchen’s still on. The peaches are sitting in the bowl where you left them. One of them is bruised deep on the side.

You think about something she said once — the best ones are always a little ugly.

You pick one up. Turn it in your hand.

Then put it back.
And turn off the light.