The days after Yang's allergy scare ran together, each one marked by worry and work. Goo was exhausted, but he refused to let it show. Miss Shu and the father did not notice how much weight Goo carried: balancing schoolwork, extra shifts at the delivery shop, chores, and endless worries about his brother's health.
One morning, Goo woke before dawn. The world was gray, the only sound was his own quiet movements as he dressed. Miss Shu was already in the kitchen, boiling water for tea, her face drawn and tired.
"Another early job?" she asked gently.
Goo nodded and smiled, tired eyes dark. "I want to help."
Miss Shu put a steady hand on his shoulder. "You already do more than enough." But they both knew there was no such thing now.
That afternoon, after class, Goo delivered boxes in the rain, the city slick and cold. At the shop, his boss handed him a bonus. "For your family. You're a good boy," she said. Goo tucked the money away, not allowing himself to cry.
But each day took more from Goo. His friends at school noticed he was quieter. When asked, he only shrugged and said, "Work, family." At home, Goo rarely spoke about his worries, trying to act strong. He felt like if he showed weakness, everything would break apart.
One night, when the family gathered to count their saved bills and coins, Goo's hands shook as he sorted the money. Miss Shu gently caught them in her own. "You are cold, my son?"
Goo could not meet her eyes. "Just tired," he murmured.
Stories of hope and little miracles kept them together. Miss Shu's shopkeeper friend quietly covered some groceries; Aunt Suhei's bakery neighbor slipped sweet buns and soup into the family's basket; Yang's teacher brought coloring paper and pencils for him to keep making his cheerful drawings.
But sometimes, darkness crept in. Goo heard his father coughing hard in the next room at night and saw Miss Shu rubbing her side, battling the pain from her old surgery. He felt angry—at their situation, at his own helplessness, and—worst of all—at Yang, whose sickness had pulled so much focus away from everyone else.
He never voiced these feelings, ashamed. Late one night while lying in bed, Goo let tears slide quietly across his pillow.
Yang, for his part, adored Goo. He looked up to his older brother for courage and joked with him whenever he could. But one night, while Goo was busy sorting things for an afterschool job, Yang approached him. "Goo, are you mad at me?"
Goo, surprised, looked up and shook his head. "Of course not. Why?"
Yang's eyes were uncertain. "You don't laugh as much with me anymore."
Goo sighed and dropped his work. He put an arm around his brother. "I am just tired, Yang. A lot is happening. I'll try to smile more."
Yang pressed his face against Goo's shoulder. "I wish you could be less tired."
Goo blinked away tears. "Me too, Yang."
One Sunday, Miss Shu suggested a trip to the park. She hoped the fresh air would help both boys. They laid out a blanket in the soft grass and shared a lunch of bread, cheese, and sweet tea. Yang drew pictures in his sketchbook, one of Goo working bravely in the rain, another of their whole family together, smiling.
Goo sprawled in the sun, letting himself rest for the first time in weeks. Miss Shu told stories about her own childhood—how she had often played in these very fields, climbing trees and pretending to fly. Goo found himself smiling at last, and even laughing at Yang's silly impressions of their father.
For those few hours, their trouble seemed far away.
But things changed quickly that same evening. As they walked home, Goo slipped and twisted his ankle on the cobbled street. Pain shot up his leg, and he fell, scattering Yang's drawings. In that moment, Goo's guards dropped. "Why does this keep happening to us?" he cried, frustration boiling over.
Miss Shu hurried to his side, lifting him gently and cradling his head. "Oh, my boy."
Yang gathered his papers, wide-eyed and scared.
At home, Miss Shu washed Goo's ankle and wrapped it tight. She spooned comforting soup into both sons, tried to lighten the mood with a story about when she had once fallen in nearly the same place.
Goo looked at her and realized how much pain she carried—and how she still chose love and hope, every single day.
That night, Goo was too sore for work or chores. He lay on the sofa, Yang at his feet. He whispered, "Yang, I'm sorry for being angry sometimes. I just want things to be better."
Yang smiled. "I know. They will be. We're together."
Later, Miss Shu sat by Goo as he rested. "You are allowed to be angry and tired, Goo. You are allowed to rest. You have been strong for us all, but you must be kind to yourself too."
Tears ran down Goo's cheeks, and for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to be comforted.
A few days later, as Goo's ankle healed, his teacher called Miss Shu to school. "Goo is so capable," she said. "But lately, he has seemed sad and distracted. I hope you can help him rest."
Miss Shu thanked the teacher and promised to take care.
That weekend, Miss Shu made Goo stay in bed while she and Yang took care of everything else. They joked and sang songs, bringing sunshine back into the little house.
When Goo returned to school, he found his heart lighter. He apologized to Yang, to his mother, and even to himself. With that, the family moved forward, more honest and united.
One evening, when all was quiet and the day's work was done, Goo left a note on Miss Shu's pillow:
Thank you for being strong for us, Mom. I will try to be strong for you, too, but I will also let you and Yang help me. Love, Goo.
Miss Shu cried softly, folded the note, and hid it with the other treasures and reminders of love she kept safe in a little box.
Even when life brought pain, regret, and anger, the family learned how to move forward, gently forgiving themselves and each other. Goo's regret did not break their bond. It built a bridge to greater healing—and, quietly, the courage to hope for days when the hardest work would be behind them.