JUST as he had done on the way to the Han cottage, Bang strolled his journey back home, savoring the lack of hurry since he had accomplished a great deal of work over the earlier portion of the day.

      The chagrin reiteration of his unintended disrespect to Mr. Han kept up as a record in his misogynistic mind; how the married man appeared so young and pure. So untouched, that Bang would never imagine that he was the man of a home, much less a father.

      But then sprouted further humiliation in his gut at the manner at which Mrs. Bang disgraced their union. What a shame it was, for a wife to not only have such frequent visits at one's home alone, but to refute her marital status with the lack of common mention. Was she not aware that such careless behaviors to outsiders would threaten the status of her husband in the eyes of many, thus raising gossip of how he was one of those childish men, unable to assert order in his own home?

      "I am the man of my house," Bang muttered, feeling the unpassable need to deal with that situation as soon as Cheryl would arrive. "What I say goes," he eyed his property proudly, smirking at the large possession. "If I say to stay home, that you shall do," he grinned wickedly, satisfied at his boost of confidence to dominate anything that was to happen in his house.

      "Cherry," Bang announced upon stomping past his front door shoes left at the corner near the interior of the frame; looking around for his daughter. "Cherry, are you alright?"

      "Yes papa," the jovial ten-year-old skipped excitedly towards the doorway, pigtails bouncing with each step. "I made this for you," she handed her father a square-cut piece of cardboard; red and yellow petals forming a man-made but beautiful, exotic flower on the surface. "Do you like it?"

      Face contorting into an expression that was so soft, reassuring, and tender as to give off an idea of his figuratively melting heart, Bang accepted his daughter's innocent gift, nodding in affirmation. "I love it, Cherry, sweetheart" he stroked a petal gently. "Daddy will place it over his bed, yeah?"

      "No, please put it somewhere else," the child's shoulders were quick to slump, a sorry pout pulsing from her lips, eyes pleading the protection of her hard work. "I don't think mummy'd like it. It isn't usual for her to appreciate these things."

      Arching a brow, Bang stooped down, careful with his aging knees, to meet Cherry at eye level and take her hands into his. "Now why would you say that, sweetheart?" He caressed the back of her palm, her artwork placed gently to the side.

      "She always tells me not to pick her flowers," Cherry whined, nervous that her father would convert to the defense of her mother, "So please don't tell her. I just wanted to make one for you," her lips quivered for a greater role in the hijack of Bang's emotions; vulnerable for his daughter, always.

      Bang nodded in thought before responding, remembering his recent, self-made oath to exercise full authority. "You know what, Cherry?" He smiled, content with the opportunity, "From now on, you can pick all of the flowers that you want, whenever you want, because daddy said so." He grew satisfied when a grin rose from one of Cherry's ears, all the way to its partner, her body twisting side to side from excitement.

      "Thanks so much," Cherry laughed, jumping up and down a little. "I'll make you plenty," she released her father's hand when he kissed the back of her palm, planting a tiny peck on his forehead before slipping, back into her bedroom.

      "You'll be called out for dinner soon," Bang stated before she got too far away, grunting as he struggled his way back to a decent stance, face scrunched at the patterned pain in his back.

      But just then arrived the notably uncomfortable woman at the open door, gulping as she sought a distracting comment with her greeting that'd divert the predicted conversation. "W-why do you leave the door open?" She stuttered, "You're looking to let too many mosquitoes inside."

      Bang smiled, sarcastic, jaw clenched before he could rotate for the more comfortable, planned confrontation of his wife. "Look at what our Cherry made me," he started, analyzing the speculated direction of that conversation. "Ain't she just an angel?"

      "Let me see that," Cheryl didn't think twice before snatching the cardboard, scrunching her face at the artwork. "I told your daughter that she shouldn't pick my flowers to make her messes" she raged, careless, nearly slamming the present down if it weren't for the tight grip Mr. Bang claimed as a restriction to her hand; his free fist tightening as he fought to control his rising agitation.

       "You're worse than I thought," he muttered, glaring at the female. "You think that you run things around here, is it so?" He leaned forward, head now hovering steadily over the shorter. "I am your husband, which means that I make the decisions. What year do you think it is, Cheryl? It's 1923, and I will not sit and watch you bring shame to my name, is that clear?" Bang smirked, satisfied with the quivering inferior.

      In truth and in fact, however, it was not as if Bang truly fancied the idea of a man taking control of his spouse as if she was an object, but the woman was pushing him. He had proved nothing far from a hardworking husband, performing duties in near proximity with being there for his family and working the fields. But Cheryl just could not be satisfied, could she?

      So much so that she went about carrying her first name without the addition which would show that she belonged to a husband? Bang couldn't take it. Something had to be done in order to get the female to settle down, and know who had rightful charge.

      "Y-yes sir," she humbled, head lowered, "May I go prepare dinner?"

      "Go," Bang sucked his teeth." But one more thing," he motioned his finger, "Your visits to the Han's should subside for now. You need to spend more time at home to fulfill your wifely duties," he glared from the side, picking the gift from his daughter from the floor,  "And Cherry can pick all of the flowers that she wants."

      Mrs. Bang could only nod, submissive, unhesitant to get away and into the kitchen as soon as her husband had stopped speaking. "Y-yes, Christopher."

      Bang smiled contently in Cheryl's direction, one hand finding its way to remove his hat, hanging it over the rusty coat rack near the door. "Good," he hummed, "Just how it should be."