Mother Yuna: My Bully Tries To Corrupt My

That night, Yuna and I planted new irises. She didn’t apologize—she didn’t have to. She just said, “Next time, show me the scar sooner.”

Then, she began questioning me. “Are you sure you’re not exaggerating? You’ve been so stressed lately.” my bully tries to corrupt my mother yuna

“Mrs. Park? Your son’s lucky. My mom wouldn’t know a garden if it bit her.” That night, Yuna and I planted new irises

Yuna, ever gracious, wiped her hands on her apron and smiled. “Oh? Well, anyone can learn. It just takes patience.” “Are you sure you’re not exaggerating

I felt the floor drop. He was rewriting history. My bruises, my terror, my sleepless nights—he was recasting them as my inability to forgive. And Yuna, my sweet, lonely mother, was drinking it in because he was offering her something she’d lost when Dad died: the feeling of being needed.

He laughed—a hollow, startled sound. Then he saw her face. No softness. No pity. Just a mother who had remembered what she was protecting.

They just sometimes need a reminder of where the garden ends—and where the war begins.