so long, I haven’t had to think about it. No one asks because everyone who’s close to me knows
exactly why I have a driver.
This is what it takes. You want her, you’re going to have to let her in.
I clear my throat, but I can’t meet her eyes. I can’t remember the worst experience of my life
while looking at her sympathetic face. “You know my parents were killed in a car accident?” I catch
her nod from the corner of my eye. “I wasn’t with them. I was in school already. And that day, no one
came to pick me up. The school tried to reach my parents, but eventually, they had to call social
services. It was the social worker that took me to the hospital. To Jonas. He was cut up, and bruised,
but he was ok. He was hysterical, though, fighting anyone who came close. I don’t know how long he
was like that. I can’t imagine they would let a kid stay that worked up for long, but when he saw me, it
was like his whole body deflated like a balloon.”
I run my fingers along the buttonhole of my jacket as images of that day run through my mind like a
horror movie. “I still remember what shoes I was wearing that day. I was so proud of them. I saw
them in a thrift shop, and I begged my mom to get them for me. They were blue, and they had flames
up the side. I remember staring down at them as the social worker walked me through the hospital.”
“How old were you?” she asks softly, hand tightening on mine.
“Seven. Jonas was four.”
“So young,” she murmurs. I hear the sympathy and sadness in her tone. “What happened after that?
With you and Jonas, I mean.”
“We spent that night at the social worker’s office. The next day, they took us to a foster home. She
told us she’d search for family, but even then, I could have told her there was no one.”
“You didn’t have any family at all?”
I shake my head. “On my dad’s side, there might be some distant relatives in Korea, but no one
that could take two little kids. My mom didn’t have anyone, either. There were no grandparents or
siblings.” I turn Maya’s palm up and trace over the lines. Lifelines I’ve heard them called. I wonder if
people like my parents, people who die too young, really do have shorter ones.
“You’re Korean?” she asks softly.
“A Quarter, on my dad’s side. My mom was white, but I don’t know anything about her ancestry.
She never talked about it. I looked into her,” I admit, “I wanted to know where she came from.
There’s not much. It’s like she appeared one day when she was sixteen. I think she must have run from
