Soon became a dangerous word.
At first, Mary Lou called constantly.
She showed me her neighborhood.
Restaurants.
Markets.
The little apartment she and Kang Jun rented.
She told me about learning Korean.
About getting lost on the subway.
About accidentally ordering something so spicy that she cried in the restaurant.
She looked happy.
I tried to be happy too.
Then months became years.
Life complicated things.
Mary Lou found work.
Then better work.
She moved.
Kang Jun’s career changed.
There were always reasons a visit wasn’t possible.
Too expensive.
Too busy.
Not enough vacation time.
Maybe next year.
Then next year came.
And went.
Mary Lou never forgot me.
That is important.
She regularly sent money.
At first, I refused it.
“Keep it.”
“Mom.”
“You need it more than I do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You’re building a life.”
“So are you.”
Eventually, I stopped arguing.
Everyone told me how lucky I was.
“You raised a good daughter.”
Family
“She takes care of you.”
“She hasn’t forgotten where she came from.”
They were right.
But money cannot sit beside you on Christmas morning.
Money cannot laugh when you burn the pie.
Money doesn’t help you finish leftovers on December twenty-sixth.
Every Christmas, I still made Mary Lou’s favorite dishes.
Roast chicken.
Mashed potatoes with too much butter.
Her father’s stuffing recipe.
Apple cake.
And every year, I set an extra place.
I told myself it was habit.
It wasn’t.
It was hope.
I imagined hearing her key in the door.
I imagined her saying:
“Surprise.”
It never happened.
Our video calls gradually became shorter.
Not because we loved each other less.
Because life becomes efficient if you allow it.
“How are you?”
“Fine.”
“Work?”
“Busy.”
“Eating?”
“Yes, Mom.”
Pregnancy & Maternity
“Sleeping?”
“Mostly.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Call ended.
Ten minutes.
Sometimes five.
I knew the shape of her face on a screen better than I knew the shape of her life.
Then one evening, I realized twelve years had passed.
Twelve.
I sat alone at my kitchen table and did the math twice because I couldn’t believe it.
Mary Lou had lived away from me longer than she’d lived in our house as an adult.
I opened our old family photo album.
Family
There she was at seven with missing front teeth.
At eleven beside Samuel.
At sixteen wearing an enormous graduation-style gown for some school ceremony.
At twenty-one.
At twenty-six.
Then suddenly, all my newer pictures of my daughter were on a phone.
Something inside me changed.
I had spent twelve years waiting for her to come home.
It occurred to me that nothing was stopping me from going to her.
Except fear.
I had never traveled internationally by myself.
The idea terrified me.
Airports confused me.
Long flights frightened me.
I didn’t speak Korean.
I worried I would get lost before I even left the airport.
So I did what I had done after Samuel died.
I made a list.
Passport.
Ticket.
Medication.
