That night, dinner was quiet.
Hiroto stirred his miso soup absentmindedly, glancing at his mother as she moved around the kitchen with her usual calm efficiency. Misaki smiled occasionally, chatting about how cold it had gotten and about needing to bring out the heavier futons soon. It was her regular motherly talk—but something about it now felt surreal.
He nodded and answered where necessary, but his mind was elsewhere.
He saw the image again: her stepping out of the love hotel at dawn, makeup faded, stockings visible under her coat, lighting a cigarette with that practiced elegance. The smile she wore then wasn't the one she gave him now.
After dinner, she said she had another night shift.
He nodded again. "Be safe."
"You too. Don't stay up too late, okay?"
"Okay."
And like clockwork, she left.
This time, he didn't follow her.
He already knew.
Instead, he walked quietly into her room. He had never snooped around here before, out of respect. But tonight wasn't about curiosity—it was about answers.
He opened the wardrobe.
Rows of clothes greeted him, each more expensive than the last. Designer labels. Dresses too glamorous for any supermarket staff. Beside them hung delicate, expensive lingerie, some still in packaging. The faint scent of perfume lingered in the fabric, too rich for everyday wear.
A shelf above held bottles—champagne, sake, imported whisky, aged scotch—brands he only saw in TV dramas.
And then he spotted it: a small safe behind a stack of shoes.
The door was ajar.
Inside was a neat pile of cash—bundled in tens of thousands of yen, easily several million yen in total. And beside it… a small leather-bound diary.
He reached for it slowly, his breath trembling.
It was her handwriting.
He sat down on her futon and opened the first page.
Dear Hiroto,
You'll never read this, I hope. But if you ever do… I want you to know everything.
When your father left us, I thought I would break. You were only three. He walked away one night and never came back—ran off with a younger woman, leaving nothing behind but debt. I cried for days. But then I saw you sleeping with your tiny arms hugging my old shirt, and I made a choice.
I wouldn't let you suffer. I wouldn't let you grow up feeling unwanted like I did. I would give you everything.
There were options. I could have gone back to the countryside and let my parents raise you. I could've remarried quickly and started over. But I didn't. I couldn't. You were the only person who made me feel strong.
I found part-time work at a factory. Then a supermarket. Then… something else.
Hiroto blinked, heart tightening. The pages continued—years of emotion poured out in neat, delicate handwriting.
I started working as an escort when you were eight. At first, it was terrifying. Degrading. I hated myself. But I was desperate. Cram school, new clothes, entrance exams—all these things I wanted you to have. I told myself it was temporary. Just a few months.
But money flowed in like never before. And it wasn't just money. I realized I needed something too. Touch. Warmth. Even if it was empty. Something to make me feel like a woman again—not just a machine working herself to the bone. I know it's shameful. I know people would judge me.
But you never judged. You always smiled. You always tried your best. That gave me strength.
Hiroto wiped his eyes, the words blurring. He kept reading.
I planned to tell you the truth one day. After you graduated college. After you had a good job. That would be the day I'd stop. That would be the day I'd say, "Hiroto, I'm proud of you. And here's what I did to help you get there."
Until then, I'll carry this burden silently. And I love you with everything I have.
Even if you hate me later, I will never regret my choice.
Because I chose you.
I always will.
Hiroto closed the diary, hands shaking.
His mind reeled with memories—her waiting outside school gates with his lunch, the way she stayed up when he had exams, how she never once bought herself a new coat but made sure he always had the best.
She could have abandoned him.
Could have handed him off to his grandparents.
Could have remarried and started over.
But she didn't.
She stayed. Worked. Sacrificed.
And loved.
More than anything, she loved him.
Tears finally spilled down his cheeks, warm against the cold fury he'd felt the night before.
Mom…
Friday came.
The bullies found him after school near the public toilets behind the sports complex. Ryo stood in front, Kenta and Shun flanking him.
"Well, Aizawa?" Ryo sneered. "Time's up."
"Where's our money?" Kenta added.
Shun cracked his knuckles.
Haruki didn't flinch.
He leaned casually against the wall and grinned.
"Do it," he said. "Do your worst."
The trio looked at one another, surprised.
"What?"
"You heard me." Hiroto stepped closer, tone icy. "You think I didn't know about my mom's work? I was testing you. And damn, you guys are dumber than I thought."
Ryo's grin faltered.
Hiroto's eyes narrowed.
"You think she doesn't have powerful clients? Men you don't want to mess with. How do you think they'll react when they find out that some loudmouthed kids from a fancy private school are spreading rumors about the woman who makes their nights enjoyable?"
Shun's face paled.
"You don't believe me?" Haruki smirked. "Ask your brother, Ryo. Didn't he say he 'slept with her?" "Ask him what she can do and how deep her contacts are."
"You bastard," Ryo growled. "You son of a—"
"Yeah," Hiroto cut him off, stepping forward. "I am. So what?"
The silence between them buzzed.
Then, without a word, the trio backed off.
They left, muttering curses, their confidence shattered.
That night, Hiroto came home and found the living room empty.
His mom had already left.
He stood there, staring at the photograph on the shelf—her and him at the zoo, when he was five. She was smiling with tired eyes, holding him up as he clung to her shoulder.
"I love you," he whispered. "I swear I'll make you proud."
"I'll give you the life you wanted for me."
"And I'll make sure you never have to work there again."
13 Years Later
The grand hall of the Tachibana International Convention Center sparkled with chandeliers and applause.
Hiroto Aizawa stood tall, dressed in a sleek dark-blue suit, accepting a crystal award from the company CEO.
"...and now, please welcome our newly promoted Head of Sales, Chief Hiroto Aizawa!"
The crowd erupted in applause.
Cameras flashed. Corporate colleagues clapped politely. But Haruki's eyes searched for one person.
He found her in the third row.
Misaki Aizawa, now 50, sat in a graceful kimono, her hair tied back, a soft smile on her face. Her eyes glistened as she clapped, her pride radiant.
Hiroto stepped up to the mic.
"I'm honored," he began, voice steady. "I graduated from Tokyo University of Engineering, worked ten years in sales, and today, I stand here in front of all of you."
"But none of that matters without acknowledging the person who made it all possible."
He turned slightly, pointing toward the audience.
"My mother."
A spotlight turned. All eyes followed.
"She raised me alone. She sacrificed more than anyone ever should. Everything I am—my success, my education, even this suit—it's all because of her."
He took a breath.
"She's the strongest woman I've ever known. And I hope… today, I've made her proud."
The hall was silent for a moment—then rose in applause.
A standing ovation.
Misaki's hands covered her mouth, trembling with emotion. Tears welled in her eyes, but her smile never wavered.
For the first time in years, Hiroto saw her the way she deserved to be seen.
Not as a secret.
Not as a sacrifice.
But as a hero.
The End.