"You don't actually believe this is just about Mom," Tae-hyun said, pacing the length of Jihan's living room the next evening, the dinner invitation still sitting open on both their phones. "Dad doesn't do sentimental. Not once, not in twenty-eight years, has that man invoked our mother's memory without an angle attached to it."
"I know." Jihan sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, turning the message over in his head for what felt like the hundredth time since receiving it. "I keep trying to find a version of this that isn't a setup, and I can't."
"So what's the play? He wants us there to what—guilt us back into line? Bring some new arranged solution to the table, try again where Seo-yeon didn't work out?"
