let mama rest
requested by @gnarlysa
The house feels quieter than usual.
Not empty—never empty—but muted, like someone turned the volume knob down just a little too much. The curtains are half-drawn, sunlight spilling across the living room floor in warm rectangles, dust motes floating lazily in the air. The hum of the dishwasher fills the background, steady and patient.
Jake moves through it all in socks.
He’s learned, over time, how to walk softly without meaning to, how to exist in a way that doesn’t disturb. Right now, it’s instinct. His steps are careful as he passes your bedroom door, eyes flicking toward it automatically, as if he can sense you even through the wood.
You’ve been sick since last night. Feverish, exhausted, the illness that settles deep into your bones and refuses to budge. Jake had tucked you in, pressed a cool cloth to your forehead, murmured reassurances until your breathing evened out again.
“I’ve got everything,” he’d whispered. “You just rest.”
And he meant it.
Right now, he’s finishing up the morning cleanup, plates rinsed, counters wiped down, toys gathered into neat little piles instead of scattered chaos. It isn’t perfect, but it’s done, and that counts. He dries his hands on a towel just as a small voice pipes up behind him.
“Dada?”
Jake turns, immediately softening.
Jaehee stands at the edge of the living room, clutching her favourite plush bunny by one ear. Her pyjamas are slightly crooked, hair still messy from sleep, cheeks round and warm. Big eyes blink up at him, searching.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Jake says gently, crouching down to her level. “What’s up?”
She hesitates, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Her lower lip pushes out just a little, a warning sign. Jake braces himself.
“Where is Mama?”
The question lands softly, but it still tugs at his chest.
Jake reaches out, smoothing a hand over her hair. “Mama is sick,” he explains in a calm, steady voice. “Let her rest, okay? We can play together today.”
Jaehee’s brows knit together.
“Sick…?” she echoes, uncertain.
“Yeah,” he nods. “She needs lots of sleep so she can feel better.”
For a moment, she stares at him. Then the pout arrives in full force, lip trembling, eyes glossy, shoulders drooping like the weight of the world has suddenly been placed upon them.
“I want Mama,” she says, voice small and wobbly.
Jake’s heart cracks a little.
“I know, baby,” he murmurs, pulling her gently into his arms. She goes willingly, pressing her face into his shoulder. “I know you do.”
She sniffs, clutching at his shirt. “Mama reads me books…”
“I know,” Jake says softly.
“And Mama sings.”
He presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Yeah.”
There’s a pause. Then, quieter: “Mama smells nice.”
That one nearly gets him.
Jake exhales slowly, rubbing small circles into her back. “She does,” he agrees. “But Mama needs to get better first. How about… today, Dada reads books and sings?”
She pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes skeptical.
“You sing… funny.”
He chuckles despite himself. “Hey. That’s just my special style.”
She doesn’t laugh, but she doesn’t cry either. Instead, she sighs dramatically, the kind of sigh only a three-year-old can manage, and leans back against his chest.
“…Okay,” she says at last. “But only one song.”
Jake smiles. “Deal.”
The morning passes in gentle pieces.
Jake reads her favourite picture book three times in a row, even though she knows all the words and insists on correcting him when he skips a line. He makes breakfast, cuts up fruit, and toasts the bread with jam shaped into something that vaguely resembles a heart. Jaehee eats slowly, occasionally glancing down the hallway toward your room.
Each time, Jake notices.
After breakfast, he sits on the floor with her, helping assemble a tower of mismatched blocks. She stacks them carefully, tongue peeking out in concentration.
“Dada,” she asks suddenly, “Mama sad?”
Jake pauses. “Why do you think that?”
“’Cause Mama is in bed,” she says. “When I'm sad, I stay in bed.”
His chest tightens, but he keeps his voice steady. “Mama’s not sad,” he reassures her. “Her body’s just tired. She’ll be okay.”
Jaehee hums, considering this, then adds another block to the tower. It wobbles dangerously.
“Careful,” Jake warns gently.
Too late. The tower collapses with a clatter. Jaehee gasps, then bursts into laughter.
Jake laughs too—real, warm laughter—and for a moment, the house feels lighter.
Around midday, you stir.
Your throat aches, your head feels heavy, but you’re dimly aware of sounds drifting in from the living room, soft voices, a familiar laugh that makes your heart squeeze even through the fog of sickness.
Jake.
Jaehee.
You smile weakly into your pillow, comforted.
The door creaks open just a little later.
Jake slips in quietly, carrying a glass of water and some medicine. He sets them down on the nightstand and sits on the edge of the bed, brushing your hair back from your face.
“Hey,” he whispers. “How’re you feeling?”
“As I got hit by a truck,” you mumble.
He smiles sympathetically. “Yeah. Figured.”
You blink up at him. “Jaehee…?”
“She’s okay,” he assures you immediately. “Missing you. But she’s being a champ.”
Your eyes sting. “I feel bad…”
“Hey,” Jake says softly, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Don’t. We’ve got this. You focus on getting better.”
From the hallway, a tiny voice calls out, “Dada?”
Jake glances toward the door. “I’ll be right back,” he murmurs, squeezing your hand once before standing.
You hear him step out.
“Dada?” Jaehee asks again when she sees him. “Mama awake?”
Jake kneels in front of her. “Yeah. She woke up for a bit.”
Jaehee’s eyes light up immediately. “Can I see?”
“Not right now,” he says gently. “She still needs rest.”
Her shoulders slump.
Jake hesitates, then says, “But… we can draw her a picture. So she knows we’re thinking about her.”
That catches her attention.
“A picture?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “A really pretty one.”
Her pout softens. “With hearts?”
“With lots of hearts.”
That seals it.
They spend the next half hour sprawled on the floor with crayons and paper. Jaehee draws a stick-figure family, Mama, Dada, and a very tiny version of herself, surrounded by chaotic pink and red hearts. Jake adds little details where he can, letting her guide his hand.
When it’s done, she holds it up proudly. “Mama gonna like it.”
“She’s gonna love it,” Jake says.
Later, when you wake again, the drawing is taped gently to the wall across from your bed.
You cry a little. Just a little.
That evening, Jake finally brings Jaehee in to see you, just for a moment.
She tiptoes in, as if the room is sacred, clutching her bunny, eyes wide.
“Mama,” she whispers.
You open your arms weakly. “Hey, baby…”
She climbs onto the bed carefully, curling against your side. Jake hovers close, watching both of you like this is the most essential thing in the world.
“You sick?” Jaehee asks softly.
“A little,” you admit. “But I’m okay.”
She presses her forehead to your arm. “I miss you.”
You kiss her hair. “I missed you too.”
Jake smiles, heart full, as he watches his family, quiet, imperfect, and so deeply loved.
For now, Dada is more than not too bad.
He’s everything. 💛
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