Co-parenting

Co-parenting

by Jaewon

---

The playground near my apartment was Minji’s favorite spot for weekend pickups. She spotted me from the swing set and came running, pigtails bouncing, her little backpack slapping against her back.

“Daddy!” she yelled, launching herself into my arms. I caught her easily, spinning her once like I always did. Her laugh was the best sound in the world.

Jihyo stood a few steps behind, watching us with that soft smile she saved for moments like this. She looked beautiful even after a long week — simple jeans, a light sweater, hair pulled back casually. At thirty, she still had that same glow that had drawn me to her years ago when we first met.

“Hey,” she said quietly when I walked over, Minji still clinging to my neck. “She had a great week at kindergarten. Teacher said she’s doing really well with her letters.”

“Thanks for letting me know.” I shifted Minji higher on my hip. “You look tired. Schedule still crazy?”

Jihyo shrugged, but her eyes showed the exhaustion. “Comeback preparations are intense. But I make time for her. Always.” There was a small pause, the kind that had become normal between us since the divorce. Polite. Careful. Full of things we didn’t say anymore.

Minji saved the moment by wiggling down and grabbing both our hands. “Mommy, can you stay for dinner at Daddy’s house? Please? We can watch the new cartoon together!”

Jihyo hesitated, glancing at me. I gave a small nod. “If you’re not too busy, it’s okay. I made extra.”

She smiled, the real one this time. “Alright. Just for a little while.”

---

The three of us walked back to my place, Minji chattering nonstop between us about her friends, the snacks at school, and how she wanted a puppy someday. It felt almost normal. Almost like the old days when we were still a family under one roof.

Inside, I started on dinner while Jihyo helped Minji wash up. I could hear them laughing in the bathroom, Jihyo’s gentle voice mixing with our daughter’s excited giggles. It tugged at something deep in my chest — the familiar ache of what we’d lost.

We ate together at the small dining table. Minji insisted on sitting between us, telling stories with her mouth full until Jihyo gently reminded her to chew first. The conversation stayed light, focused on our daughter, but every so often our eyes would meet and linger a second too long.

After dinner, Minji dragged us to the couch for cartoons. She fell asleep halfway through, head on Jihyo’s lap, small hand holding mine. We didn’t move for a while, just sitting there in the quiet glow of the TV.

“She’s getting so big,” Jihyo whispered, gently brushing Minji’s hair back. “Sometimes I still can’t believe we made her.”

“Yeah,” I said softly. “Best thing we ever did.”

The silence stretched. Jihyo looked at me, something heavy in her eyes. “Do you ever regret it? The way things ended?”

I swallowed. “Every day. Not the separation itself… we needed that. But the way we let it happen. The fights. The cold shoulders. I regret not fighting harder for us.”

She nodded slowly, eyes glistening. “Me too. I was so focused on my career, on proving I could have it all. I pushed you away when you tried to help. And then it was too late.”

Minji stirred a little in her sleep. We both went quiet until she settled again.

“I should get going,” Jihyo said eventually, voice thick. “Early schedule tomorrow.”

I carried Minji to her room while Jihyo gathered her things. When I came back out, she was standing by the door, looking small.

“Thank you for dinner,” she said. “And for being such a good dad to her.”

“You’re an amazing mom, Jihyo. She’s lucky to have you.”

She stepped closer, hesitated, then hugged me. It wasn’t one of those quick, polite co-parent hugs. It lingered. Her arms wrapped tight around my waist, face pressed to my chest like she used to do when things got hard. I held her back just as tight.

“We’re doing okay, right?” she whispered against my shirt. “With the co-parenting?”

“We are,” I answered, rubbing her back gently. “But sometimes I miss… more than that.”

She pulled back just enough to look at me. For a moment, it felt like the old spark was there again. Then she stepped away.

“Goodnight,” she said softly, slipping out the door.

I stood there for a long time after she left, the apartment feeling emptier than usual.

---

The next few weeks followed our usual rhythm. I had Minji from Friday evening to Sunday afternoon. Jihyo picked her up after her schedules. We texted about school things, doctor appointments, and what Minji wanted for her birthday. Polite. Functional. Safe.

But something had shifted after that night. The hugs at handoffs lasted longer. Our conversations went beyond just Minji. One evening she called me after a tough rehearsal, voice tired but warm, just to hear about my day. Another time I sent her photos of Minji’s drawing that said “I love Mommy and Daddy.”

The slight angst was still there — the what-ifs and memories of arguments that had torn us apart. I remembered the late nights when she came home drained from promotions and I felt neglected. She remembered how I had started closing off instead of talking. We were young, ambitious, and stupid. Love wasn’t enough back then when life pulled us in opposite directions.

But now, with Minji as our shared priority, it felt different. More mature. Maybe kinder.

One Saturday, Jihyo had a rare free afternoon. She asked if she could join us at the park. Minji was thrilled. We watched our daughter run around, chasing butterflies, while sitting on a bench together.

“She looks happy,” Jihyo said, leaning back with a content sigh. “Really happy.”

“Because she has both of us,” I replied. “Even if we’re not together.”

Jihyo was quiet for a moment. “Do you think… we could ever try again? Not right away. But someday?”

My heart skipped. I looked at her — really looked. The woman I fell in love with was still there, stronger now, more sure of herself. And I was different too. Less selfish. More patient.

“I’d like that,” I said honestly. “But only if we do it right this time. For her. And for us.”

She smiled, small but real. When Minji ran back to us with a flower, Jihyo took it and tucked it behind my ear, laughing softly when Minji clapped.

---

The weekend before Minji’s birthday, we decided to plan a small party together. Jihyo came over after practice, sleeves rolled up, ready to help bake the cake. Flour ended up everywhere. Minji “helped” by licking the spoon and making a mess. The three of us laughed more than we had in years.

Later, while Minji played in her room, Jihyo and I sat at the kitchen table frosting the cake.

“I’ve been thinking a lot,” she said, carefully adding sprinkles. “About us. I never stopped loving you. Even when I was angry. Even when I thought it was over.”

“I never stopped either,” I admitted. “The divorce… it hurt. But it also made me realize how much I took you for granted.”

She reached across the table and took my hand. “We were both at fault. But we’re better now. I see it every time you’re with Minji. Every time we talk like this.”

The moment felt heavy with possibility. I squeezed her hand. “I don’t want to rush. But I want to try. Slowly. For real this time.”

Jihyo’s eyes shone with happy tears. “Me too.”

When Minji ran out asking for more frosting, we quickly wiped our eyes and pulled her into a group hug. The three of us, together in the kitchen, felt like the beginning of something new.

---

The birthday party was small but perfect. Family, a few close friends, and lots of laughter. Jihyo and I worked side by side hosting, stealing glances at each other across the room. When it was time for cake, Minji blew out the candles and wished out loud, “I wish Mommy and Daddy live together again!”

The room went quiet for a second. Jihyo looked at me, cheeks pink. I smiled back.

Later that night, after everyone left and Minji was asleep, Jihyo stayed to help clean up. We worked quietly until the last dish was done.

She turned to me near the door. “Thank you for today. For everything.”

I pulled her into a hug. This one felt different. Hopeful. “We’re going to be okay,” I whispered. “All three of us.”

She nodded against my chest. When she pulled back, she kissed my cheek softly. “Goodnight. I’ll see you soon.”

As she drove away, I stood at the window watching her taillights disappear. The road ahead wasn’t straight or easy, but for the first time in years, it felt like we were driving in the same direction.

Co-parenting had brought us back together in the gentlest way possible. Now we had a real second chance — not just for Minji, but for the love that never actually left.

---

The weeks after Minji’s birthday felt different. The texts between Jihyo and me weren’t just about pickup times or school updates anymore. She’d send pictures of her lunch during breaks with a simple “Thinking of you two.” I started sending her good morning voice notes when I knew her schedule was heavy. Little things that felt scary but right.

One Friday evening, she arrived early to pick up Minji. Instead of waiting at the door like usual, she came inside when I invited her. Minji was still packing her favorite stuffed bunny.

“Coffee?” I offered, already moving toward the kitchen.

Jihyo nodded, following me. She leaned against the counter, watching as I prepared her cup the way she liked — one sugar, a splash of milk. “You still remember.”

“Some things you don’t forget.” I handed her the mug, our fingers brushing. The small touch sent warmth up my arm. “How’s the comeback prep going?”

“Exhausting but exciting. The members keep asking about Minji. And about you.” She took a sip, eyes meeting mine over the rim. “I told them we’re… figuring things out. Slowly.”

My heart picked up pace. “Are we?”

She set the mug down and stepped closer. “I want to be. But I’m scared, you know? What if we mess it up again? What if Minji gets hurt?”

I reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m scared too. But I’d rather try and fail together than keep wondering what if. We’re not the same people we were back then. We’ve both grown up.”

Jihyo leaned into my touch for a moment, closing her eyes. “I missed this. Being able to talk to you like this.”

Minji ran into the kitchen then, breaking the moment but filling it with laughter. “Mommy, look! I packed extra snacks for the weekend!”

We both smiled at our daughter, the tension easing into something warmer. Jihyo picked her up and kissed her cheek. “Ready to go home, baby?”

As they left, Jihyo glanced back at me from the doorway. “Maybe next weekend… we could do something together? All three of us.”

“I’d like that,” I said. “A lot.”

---

The family trip happened two weekends later. A short drive to a quiet cabin resort about two hours outside the city. No schedules, no managers, just the three of us. Minji was beyond excited, bouncing in her car seat the whole way while singing made-up songs.

The cabin was cozy — wooden walls, a big fireplace, and a small porch overlooking the trees. Jihyo unpacked while I carried bags inside. Minji immediately claimed the loft bed upstairs.

That first evening felt like stepping back in time, but gentler. We roasted marshmallows over the fire while Minji told us stories about her imaginary friends. Jihyo sat close to me on the couch, our shoulders touching. When Minji fell asleep between us, Jihyo rested her head on my shoulder.

“This feels nice,” she whispered. “Normal.”

“It does.” I wrapped an arm around her carefully. She didn’t pull away.

The next day we went on a short hike. Minji held both our hands, swinging between us like she used to when she was smaller. The trail was easy, filled with her constant questions and laughter. At one point she got tired, so I carried her on my back while Jihyo walked beside me.

“You’re really good with her,” Jihyo said softly. “You always were.”

“You’re an incredible mom. She gets her strength from you.”

We found a clearing with a beautiful view and sat down for snacks. Minji ran around collecting leaves while Jihyo and I talked quietly.

“I’ve been seeing a therapist,” she admitted. “Since the divorce. It helped me understand how I pushed people away when I felt overwhelmed. Including you.”

“I should have communicated better instead of shutting down,” I replied. “We both made mistakes. But I think we can learn from them.”

She looked at me for a long moment, eyes searching. Then she leaned in and kissed my cheek. “Thank you for giving us another chance to try.”

The rest of the trip was filled with small, healing moments. Cooking simple meals together, Jihyo teaching Minji a new dance move while I watched from the couch, late-night talks after Minji went to bed. One night, Jihyo and I stayed up by the fireplace, sharing a blanket.

“I still love you,” she said suddenly, voice barely above a whisper. “I never stopped. Even when I was angry. Even when I thought I should.”

Tears stung my eyes. “I love you too, Jihyo. Always have.”

We didn’t kiss that night. It still felt too soon. But we held each other close, letting the warmth of the fire and years of shared history wrap around us. The slight angst was still present — old fears whispering that it might not work — but hope felt stronger.

---

Back in the city, life continued with new rhythm. We started having dinner together once a week. Sometimes at my place, sometimes at hers. Minji thrived with the extra time seeing both of us together. She began drawing more pictures of the three of us holding hands.

One evening after dinner, Minji was playing in her room when Jihyo helped me wash dishes. Our hands brushed in the soapy water. This time, neither of us pulled away.

“I’ve been thinking about us moving forward,” she said, drying a plate slowly. “Not rushing into living together again. But maybe… dating? Properly. Like starting over.”

I turned to face her. “I’d really like that.”

She smiled, the kind that reached her eyes and made them shine. We shared our first real kiss since the divorce right there in the kitchen — soft, tentative, full of years of missing each other. It wasn’t fireworks and passion like when we were younger. It was deeper. Safer. More meaningful.

When we pulled apart, she rested her forehead against mine. “We take it slow. For Minji. And for us.”

“Slow sounds perfect.”

---

Of course, it wasn’t all smooth. There were still tough days. One night Jihyo had to cancel a planned dinner because of an emergency schedule change. I felt the old frustration rise — the feeling of coming second to her career. But instead of shutting down, I called her later.

“I get it,” I said when she apologized. “Work is important. Just… let me know earlier next time if you can. So I don’t get my hopes up too much.”

She was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry. I’m still learning how to balance everything. Thank you for telling me instead of holding it in.”

That conversation helped. We were communicating better now. The slight angst that used to fester in silence was brought into the open and talked through. It wasn’t perfect, but it was progress.

Minji started noticing the changes too. One afternoon she asked, “Are Mommy and Daddy friends again?”

Jihyo knelt down to her level. “We’re more than friends, sweetheart. We’re trying to be a family again. But even if things are different sometimes, we both love you more than anything.”

Our daughter’s happy grin made every difficult step worth it.

---

As the leaves started changing color, we planned another small trip — just one night this time. A cabin closer to the city so Jihyo wouldn’t miss too much work. Minji was over the moon.

On the drive there, Jihyo reached over and held my hand while I drove. It felt natural. Right.

That night, after Minji fell asleep, we sat on the porch wrapped in blankets, looking at the stars.

“I’m proud of us,” Jihyo said, leaning her head on my shoulder. “For not giving up. For trying again even when it was scary.”

“I’m proud of you too. For being brave enough to want this.”

She turned to me, and this time when we kissed, it carried more weight. More promise. When we pulled apart, she whispered, “I want to keep building this. With you.”

“Me too.”

The slight angst still lingered in quiet moments — worries about the future, about balancing careers and family. But the love was louder now. Stronger. Built on lessons learned and a shared commitment to doing better.

We still had a long way to go. This was only the beginning of our second chance. But with Minji’s laughter echoing in the background and Jihyo’s hand warm in mine, it felt like we were finally heading in the right direction.

---

Winter arrived gently that year. Snow dusted the city streets, and Minji couldn’t stop talking about the Christmas lights everywhere. Jihyo and I had fallen into a careful rhythm over the past months — weekly dinners, weekend outings, late-night calls when her schedule allowed. We were dating again, slowly and intentionally, always putting Minji first. But the closer we got, the more the old fears tried to creep back in.

One Friday evening, things felt heavier than usual. Jihyo arrived to pick up Minji after a particularly long week of promotions. Her eyes were tired, shoulders tense. When Minji ran to her room to grab her bag, Jihyo lingered in the kitchen with me.

“I’m sorry I had to cancel last weekend,” she said quietly, rubbing her temple. “The company pushed another interview. I know I promised we’d go to the winter festival.”

“It’s okay,” I replied, though the disappointment must have shown on my face. “Work is work. We’ll do it another time.”

She looked at me, reading the slight hurt I couldn’t fully hide. “But it’s not okay, is it? I see that look. The same one you used to get before… before everything fell apart last time.”

I leaned against the counter, choosing honesty like we’d promised each other. “I’m not angry. I just miss you. Miss us. Sometimes it feels like we’re slipping back into old patterns, even though we said we wouldn’t.”

Jihyo’s eyes glistened. She stepped closer and took my hands. “I’m scared too. Scared that my career will always come between us. That I’ll keep disappointing you and Minji.”

Before I could respond, Minji appeared in the doorway, clutching her stuffed bunny. She looked between us with big, worried eyes. “Are Mommy and Daddy fighting again?”

The question hit like a punch. Jihyo knelt down immediately, pulling her close. “No, sweetheart. We’re just talking. Sometimes grown-ups get sad when they miss each other.”

Minji hugged her tighter. “But you love each other, right? Like in my drawings?”

I joined them on the floor, wrapping my arms around both. “We do, baby. Very much.”

That night, after Jihyo took Minji home, she called me. Her voice was soft but determined. “Can I come back after Minji falls asleep? We need to talk properly.”

She arrived an hour later, snowflakes melting in her hair. We sat on the couch with tea, the apartment quiet except for the hum of the heater.

“I’ve been thinking about us a lot,” she started. “About how hard we worked to build something beautiful, and how easily we let it break. I don’t want to lose you again. Not because of schedules or pride or fear.”

“I don’t want that either,” I said, taking her hand. “We’ve both changed. I’m better at speaking up now instead of pulling away. And you’re better at setting boundaries with work. But it’s still scary.”

She nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks. “It is. But loving you has always been worth the fear. Watching you with Minji these past months… it reminded me why I fell in love with you in the first place. You’re patient. You’re kind. You make us feel safe.”

We talked for hours that night — about the past mistakes, the moments we were proud of, and what we wanted for the future. No yelling. No shutting down. Just two people who had grown enough to face the hard parts together. When she left in the early morning, we shared a long, tender kiss at the door. It felt like a promise.

---

Christmas came a few weeks later. We decided to spend it together as a family for the first time since the divorce. My apartment was decorated with lights Minji helped put up, and Jihyo brought over a small tree from her place. The three of us spent the day baking cookies, wrapping presents, and dancing to holiday songs in the living room.

Minji’s excitement was contagious. She kept asking if Santa would bring her the one thing she wanted most — “Mommy and Daddy together forever.”

Jihyo and I shared a look over her head. The slight angst from earlier weeks had faded, replaced by quiet certainty.

That evening, after Minji fell asleep surrounded by new toys, Jihyo and I sat by the tree with warm drinks. The lights twinkled softly, casting gentle colors across her face.

“I have something for you,” she said, pulling out a small envelope from her bag. Inside were two plane tickets and a hotel booking for a week-long trip to Jeju Island during her upcoming break.

“For all three of us,” she explained, voice hopeful. “A real family vacation. No work calls. No schedules. Just us figuring out what our future looks like.”

I pulled her into my arms, holding her tight. “This is perfect. I love you, Jihyo. I’m all in this time. No more running when it gets hard.”

She kissed me deeply, hands cupping my face. “I love you too. More than I did before, because we fought for this. We earned it.”

We spent the rest of the night talking about plans — not rushing into living together again, but taking steady steps toward it. More shared weekends. More honest conversations. Building something stronger than what we had before.

---

Spring arrived with new beginnings. Minji started calling us “Mommy and Daddy” together more naturally, no longer separating the titles. We attended her kindergarten events as a pair, holding hands when no one was looking. The members of TWICE teased Jihyo gently when they found out, but they were supportive, happy to see their leader smiling more brightly.

One warm afternoon in the park, Minji ran ahead chasing bubbles while Jihyo and I walked behind her. She slipped her hand into mine, fingers intertwining naturally.

“Do you remember when we first brought her here as a baby?” she asked, smiling at the memory.

“I do. You were so nervous about carrying her in the carrier. Kept checking if she was breathing every two minutes.”

She laughed softly. “We’ve come a long way since then.”

We stopped under a blooming cherry tree. Petals drifted down around us like soft snow. Jihyo turned to me, eyes full of love and certainty.

“I don’t want to wait anymore,” she said. “I want us to be a family again. Properly. Not just co-parenting. Not just dating. All of us, together.”

My heart swelled. I cupped her face and kissed her, slow and full of everything we had been through. “Yes. Let’s go home together. All three of us.”

Minji ran back to us then, throwing her arms around our legs. “Group hug!”

We knelt down and held her between us, the three of us laughing under the falling petals. In that moment, every hard day, every tear, every doubt felt worth it.

---

Months later, we moved into a new apartment together — bigger, brighter, with space for all our memories and new ones to come. Jihyo reduced some of her solo schedules to spend more evenings at home. I adjusted my work to be more flexible. We still had challenges — busy days, tired nights, the occasional old fear creeping in — but we faced them together, talking openly like we promised.

Minji thrived with both parents under one roof again. She drew more pictures of our happy family, now with a house instead of two separate ones.

One quiet night, after putting Minji to bed, Jihyo and I stood on the balcony looking at the city lights. She leaned back against my chest, my arms wrapped around her waist.

“Thank you for giving us this second chance,” she whispered.

“Thank you for fighting for it with me,” I replied, kissing the top of her head.

The road hadn’t been easy. Co-parenting had tested us, the distance and pain had nearly broken us, but love — patient, grown-up, honest love — brought us back together. Not as the same young couple we once were, but as better versions who knew what really mattered.

Our family was whole again. Not perfect, but real. And that was more than enough.

(Hope you like it. - Jaewon)