The moment Lexie's shoes touched the cool tile of Vancouver's airport terminal, a quiet stillness settled over her chest. The air smelled like soft rain and pine—clean, earthy, and achingly familiar. She paused mid-step, as if the city had exhaled and welcomed her back in one breath.
Her phone buzzed the second she passed the immigration.
Matthew Lee💙👬
You made it.
Let me know when you've got Ethan.
Korea's boring without you already.
Mark Michael Lee🌙🌙
Got your text. Thank you for letting me know.
I'm glad you arrived safely.
Be safe, okay? You and Ethan.
Lexie smiled at both replies—Mark's carefully worded message, and Matthew's casual warmth that always reminded her she wasn't alone in either country. She was still typing out a quiet "Thanks, I will" when she caught sight of a blur rushing past the security barrier.
"Mama!"
She froze.
Her mother was standing just beyond the arrival gate—no announcement, no warning—with her arms outstretched and eyes wet with joy. And running straight toward her was a tiny blur in navy overalls and bright yellow sneakers.
"Ethan!" Lexie's voice broke before she could catch it.
He barreled into her legs, nearly knocking over the carry-on bag she was wheeling. Lexie dropped to her knees, arms catching him mid-sob. He clung to her like she might disappear again, his small hands squeezing the fabric of her coat.
"You're really back," he mumbled into her shoulder, voice muffled.
Lexie pressed kisses to his cheek, to the top of his head, to every part of him she'd missed with a hollowness she hadn't even realized she'd been carrying.
"Mama's really back, love," she whispered, her arms wrapping tighter. "And I'm not going anywhere again—not without you."
Her mother stepped forward quietly, placing a gentle hand on her back. "We figured you'd need a reason to smile," her mom said, voice thick with warmth as she pulled Lexie into a hug with one arm. "He insisted on waiting here. Wouldn't let me come alone."
Lexie laughed softly as she wiped her eyes. "Sounds like someone inherited my stubborn streak."
Her mother smiled, though her eyes looked as misty as the glass walls behind them. "He missed you like you wouldn't believe."
"I missed him more than anything."
Lexie crouched to eye-level with Ethan, who grinned, bouncing a little.
"Mama, I drawed this for you!" he said proudly, holding out the crayon-covered banner that says: WELCOME BACK MAMA.
Lexie took it with trembling hands and laughed through the tears in her throat. "You did! It's beautiful. Thank you, love."
"I didn't forget your hug," Ethan added, and promptly threw his arms around her neck with all the might a four-year-old could give.
She buried her face in his shoulder. The smell of strawberry shampoo and crumpled airplane snacks overwhelmed her in the best way.
She was home. Not just in Vancouver—but in him.
* * *
The house felt the same—but it didn't.
Lexie had left behind folders full of comeback outlines, trainee evaluation notes, and unfinished color grading timelines in Seoul. But here, in this quiet Vancouver home, everything felt slower—everything felt softer. Warmer. It wasn't just about coming back.
It was about being welcomed back.
This was the house where she'd learned how to be a daughter again. Where her parents—no, her family—had given her space to fall apart, and room to rebuild.
This was where she'd learned how to breathe again.
Where late nights weren't spent in endless drafts—but in warm kitchens and sleepy hallways, where someone always asked if she'd eaten, where hugs came without condition. This house had given her more than a roof—it gave her a family. One that never asked her to explain herself. One that accepted her as their own.
She paused in the living room, the weight of memory gently settling around her. Framed pictures lined the shelves—Ethan's early drawings, a family photo with frosting on everyone's faces, the hand-me-down blanket still draped over the couch arm like it never moved.
Coming home didn't mean she'd left her chaos behind.
It just meant she could carry it in gentler arms.
Ethan followed her everywhere like a baby duckling, narrating every corner of the house as though she hadn't lived there, hadn't raised him under this roof. His sentences came out in bursts—half-formed but bursting with color.
"This is where I draw my robot! But sometimes it turns into a shark!"
"And here, the stairs creak when Grandma goes up but not when I do."
"I saved your pillow! It still smells like you. I smelled it every day!"
Lexie knelt beside him, gathering him into another hug. "You're getting so big."
"I'm four now," he said matter-of-factly, holding up three fingers and correcting himself. "Wait—one more. Four."
"You sure are."
* * *
This year has been a whirlwind of urgent calls and impossible decisions.
Her parents had barely caught their breath from the chaos of moving back to Canada when Lexie showed up again—suddenly, and in the middle of a crisis. Ethan's hospitalization had shaken them all, and just as quickly as she'd come home, Lexie had vanished back to Korea, leaving behind unanswered questions and unspoken worries.
So when they greeted her at the airport this time—with smiles warm but shoulders slightly tense—Lexie understood. Too much had been left hanging in the air, and this return… it needed to mean something more.
They didn't ask many questions. They didn't need to.
Lexie had always carried things silently. It was both a gift and a curse.
That evening, over chamomile tea, her mother finally broke the silence.
"You're really taking Ethan to Seoul?"
They were sitting around the dining table after Ethan had fallen asleep in the living room with a picture book covering his face. Her father had just poured tea. Her mother sat opposite her, fingers absently tracing the rim of her cup.
Lexie nodded. "I've already submitted the final papers. The visa is approved. His school transfer too. I just... I want him to grow up in a place where he'll know I chose him every day."
Her father leaned back in his chair, lips pursed. "You were always brave like that."
Lexie bit back the sudden well of emotion. "I wasn't always. But I think I am now."
Lexie reached into her bag and pulled out a slim, bound folder.
She didn't slide it across the table. Not yet.
"I've been thinking about you two a lot," she said. "And what you've given me. The chances. The quiet support, even when I couldn't say what I needed out loud."
Her parents didn't interrupt. They didn't have to. They knew the prelude to something important when they heard it.
Lexie inhaled deeply. "This year's been… heavy. But it also made me realize how much I've carried because of what you built for me. So—this is for you."
She finally placed the folder on the table and turned it to face them.
Photos slipped out. A small house nestled in the trees. Wooden eaves, clean lines. A view of a lake that caught the light in the mornings. Blueprints. Deed documents.
Her parents blinked.
"It's yours," she said simply.
Lexie added, "It's in Gapyeong."
"What?" her mother asked, voice trembling. "You… bought a house?" Her dad opened the folder, brows drawing tight.
"For you. Both of you."
Her father reached for the documents with slow, unsure hands.
"I know I can't repay what you've done. But I can say thank you. This house—it's yours to retire in, vacation in, escape to, whatever you want. I wanted you to have a place where the rest feels earned."
There was silence for a while. The weight of the gesture sat between them like an unopened gift.
Then her mother stood, walked around the table, and sat beside her. She didn't say anything—just pulled Lexie into a full-bodied hug.
"Lex, darling... you didn't have to. I don't need a house," she whispered into her daughter's hair, "to know you love us."
Lexie held on tighter. "But I wanted you to feel it."
Her father cleared his throat, his voice caught somewhere between surprise and something unspoken. "Gapyeong, huh?"
Lexie nodded, the corners of her eyes wet but smiling. "It's quiet. Close enough to Seoul so you can visit whenever you want. And the kitchen's big," she added, glancing at her mom. "I remember you always wished for a proper Korean-style counter."
Her mom let out a soft, breathy laugh that trembled at the edges. "You remembered that?"
"I remember everything," Lexie whispered.
She hesitated, then looked between the two of them, her voice thick with emotion. "And… just like here before—it's next door to the Lees. I thought maybe… you missed them, too."
There was silence, not awkward, but full. Heavy with years and meanings and memories.
Then her mother reached out, pulling Lexie into her arms. "You brought us home again," she murmured.
* * *
Later that night, as Lexie carried Ethan to bed, he stirred in her arms.
"Are we going to a new home soon?" he asked sleepily.
"Soon," she whispered. "But you'll love it there."
"Do they have trees in there too?"
"Lots of them."
"And robot cartoons?"
"The best ones."
He blinked once, drowsy. "Do I still get to sleep next to you?"
Lexie's heart melted. "Every night if you want,love."
"Then Ethan is home, Mama" he said simply, already falling back asleep.
And just like that, it was.
* * *
The next two days passed in a blur of farewells and small routines.
Lexie spent her last two days in Vancouver doing what she hadn't been able to for years—just being. Morning walks with Ethan wrapped in his favorite dinosaur hoodie, grocery runs and late-night talks with her mom over folded laundry, and hours of slow, sunlit conversations on the back porch with her dad. No calls. No edits. No deadlines.
And Mark—he was there too, in little moments. A reply to her check-in text the night she arrived. A short voice note after she sent him a photo of Ethan sitting excitedly on top of one of her suitcases, arms raised like he was flying, a gummy grin stretched wide.
L:EXIEsent an image
L:EXIE sent a voice message
[ Ethan: "Mamaaa let's go Korea now now now!" ]
Luggage boy reporting for duty ✈️
Mark Michael Lee🌙🌙:
tell my seatmate i saved him snacks
Lexie smiled at her screen, warmth blooming in her chest.
They were going home soon—her and Ethan.
But somehow, she'd already started carrying home with her. In her son's laughter. In her parents' quiet pride. In the still-healing spaces between her and Mark.
Because home wasn't always a place.
Sometimes, it was the people—and the things—you chose to carry back with you.
~~ 끝 ~~