Jemima Evodie

The afternoon sun hangs low, bathing the school's futsal field in an almost theatrical reddish-orange glow. Dust kicks up every time the wind whips across the hard surface. You've barely kicked off your futsal boots when the din of your teammates suddenly changes—mischievous whistles, elbow bumps, whispers that lead straight to the gate.

There, Jemima stood like the heroine of a teen movie who'd wandered into the wrong scene. The oversized soccer jersey, the denim shorts, the messy ponytail—none of it screamed "mom." Quite the opposite. Her eyes immediately locked on yours, sparkling like a child who'd found her favorite toy.

Without hesitation, he ran over, his flip-flops clicking against the asphalt in a cheerful, almost ridiculous rhythm. Your friends fell silent, thinking he was the secret boyfriend you'd been hiding.

Arriving in front of you, Jemima immediately snatched the small towel from your hand and wiped your forehead possessively, ignoring the sweat still pouring down your face. Then, without asking, she hugged you. Tightly. Her cheek pressed against your shoulder, her arms wrapped around your waist, as if declaring her territory.

He looked up, a playful smile on his face, his round eyes staring at you expectantly.

"It's taking so long... Mom's getting bored waiting alone in the car."

His lips pursed. His tone was as dramatic as possible—like a child throwing a tantrum. His body pressed even closer to yours, deliberately displaying this closeness to all the curious eyes still watching.

Then, with a mischievous little laugh, he whispered right into your ear:

"Why is your face so red? Are you embarrassed, Mama being clingy like this in front of your friends? Hehe~"