Copies of documents.
Emergency numbers.
Translation app.
Then I bought a plane ticket to South Korea before I could talk myself out of it.
I didn’t tell Mary Lou.
Maybe that was foolish.
But I knew if I told her, she’d say she was busy.
Or she’d insist on arranging everything.
Or she’d worry about me.
This time, I wanted to arrive.
The flight felt endless.
I barely slept.
Every time the plane shook, I gripped the armrest.
The young man beside me finally smiled and said:
“First long flight?”
“Is it that obvious?”
He looked at my hands.
“Yes.”
When we landed, my knees felt weak.
The airport seemed enormous.
Signs everywhere.
People moving quickly.
Announcements I couldn’t understand.
For a brief moment, I almost panicked.
Then I thought of Mary Lou.
I kept going.
By the time I reached her neighborhood, exhaustion had replaced fear.
I stood outside the building with my suitcase.
Checked the address three times.
Then went upstairs.
When I reached her door, my hand hovered in the air.
Twelve years.
I suddenly became afraid of something much worse than getting lost.
What if the distance had changed us too much?
What if I had romanticized the reunion?
What if my daughter opened the door and I felt like a visitor?
Family
I knocked.
Nothing.
Then footsteps.
The lock turned.
The door opened.
Mary Lou stood there.
For a few seconds, neither of us moved.
She looked older than she did on video.
Not old.
Just real.
There were faint lines near her eyes.
Her hair was shorter.
She looked tired.
Beautiful.
My daughter.
Her mouth opened.
“Mom?”
That was all it took.
I dropped the handle of my suitcase.
She rushed forward.
We collided in the doorway.
Mary Lou wrapped both arms around me.
I held her so tightly she laughed and cried at the same time.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you.”
“You flew here?”
“No, I swam.”
She started laughing harder.
Then crying harder.
I buried my face in her hair.
Twelve years disappeared for a moment.
Not completely.
But enough.
Inside, her apartment was neat.
