Choi Wansu’s office is glass and steel and white walls with monochromatic paintings. There’s a tiny bit of color in the paintings, but it’s negligible and could be mistaken for shadows cast by the light overhead. Either Wansu or her decorator hates color, and all of it has been discarded, much like me. I was like a blot of color in Wansu’s life and so she abandoned me to make way for something sleeker, smarter—my eyes slide to the door that Wansu is closing—someone tall, handsome, smart, kind . . . better.

I stiffen my spine and raise my head. I’m not the one at fault here. Why should I be cowering in the middle of the room like a child called to the front of the class to explain some infraction? I’m the one with the questions. I’m the one who didn’t screw up here.

I clasp my hands at my back and pretend that it’s a privilege for her to have me standing here. I resume my inspection of Wansu’s surgically precise setup. One side of the room holds floor-to-ceiling glass panels overlooking downtown Seoul. There’s a large painting on the wall facing the desk that looks like two giant brushes dipped in black paint where whipped across a canvas. Behind the desk is a marble-clad wall with illuminated niches holding metal and glass sculptures. The wall opposite the windows holds the only signs of personalization. There are framed plaques and a console table with pictures, but everything is precisely placed.

Most of the photos are of Wansu getting an award. She’s depicted shaking hands with someone while holding a padded portfolio open displaying something important that I don’t understand. One of the award photos is not with Koreans, and the banner hanging behind Wansu is in English. I pick it up. Entrepreneur of the Year, International Association for the Advancement of Women.

Ellen’s home has none of these. Ellen doesn’t even have an office. She has a kitchen and a craft room that’s messy and maddening because I can’t ever find a safety pin when I need one because Ellen doesn’t believe in organization. Or white things. I engage in a moment of self-loathing as I think of all the times that I’ve mentally criticized Ellen for being messy. I send my mom a silent apology.

“Sit,” Wansu barks with the demeanor of someone who is used to giving orders and having them followed. “Please,” she adds.

I don’t do as she’s ordered. Wansu doesn’t get to tell me what to do. Wansu has no hold over me—not like she has over Yujun. Because Yujun loves her and that love holds him in check. The thought makes my stomach clench. He’s had my mother’s love all these years.

I once watched the tail end of a show where adoptees were reunited with their birth parents. Usually I avoided those emotional-porn shows like the plague but this one caught my attention. There were three adoptees onstage and one by one, each kid’s parents came out. Every time someone appeared from offstage, the crowd would erupt in cheers. The camera panned to the audience wiping away tears. The people on the stage were crying. The host was beaming, likely thinking of the giant ratings. It all made me so uncomfortable. I wondered what I would be doing. Would I cry? Would I break down? I imagined a lot of scenarios but none of them where my birth mother and I would be circling each other like caged tigers or perhaps gladiators waiting for the thumbs-up or thumbs-down from the emperor in order to know whether we should try to kill each other or whether we should retreat to our quarters.