“Hara, what if it was not your father? You said it was a data breach. This could be any random person. Why did you not ask for my help?” Boyoung is distressed. Really distressed.

Her concern spikes my blood pressure. “I . . . I thought I could do it myself.”

And I wasn’t ready to share this. I’m not ready now, but I was so uncertain of my own translation and I didn’t trust the internet, so I came to you.

Boyoung presses her lips together in a disapproving line before holding out her hand. “Let me have the email and I will do some research for you. Once I find out who this man is, I’ll help you write a response. I don’t want someone to take advantage of you.”

I curl fingers protectively around the printout, as if the email isn’t starred in my inbox and couldn’t be reprinted a thousand times. “It’s okay. I’m not going to do anything rash. I was curious.”

I mean, yes, I’ve looked up tickets to Korea, but I haven’t bought any. I might have applied for a passport, but that hasn’t arrived in the mail. I haven’t done anything concrete. It’s all dreams and imaginings. I fold the paper up into a tiny square and tuck it back into my pocket.

“Do not reply without talking to me first,” Boyoung urges. “Promise?”

Our pizza arrives to save me from lying to my friend.

CHAPTER FOUR

“And after seeing Karen at the wake, we thought it would be good to get together again. Apparently, Pat’s coworkers aren’t fond of that woman either. Everyone thinks your dad was a fool to remarry and have a kid at his age. Karen kept asking what was Pat thinking, but that’s the problem. He wasn’t. At least not with his big head.” Mom presses the plastic wrap into the top of the honey lemon curd cake she’s making.

I wince at the vague reference to my dead father’s penis and decide it’s not a good segue to the confession I have to make. It’s not the trip that will freak Mom out, but the reason. I did contemplate lying like a coward and saying I’m going on a vacation out east, but that would require keeping up an elaborate story, which I’d mess up within the first twenty-four hours. Besides, can you ever lie to your mom? They have some inborn sixth sense about their kids. I’ve never been able to get away with a thing, and if Mom wasn’t preoccupied with Dad’s death and the other Mrs. Wilson, she’d catch on to the fact that I’m jumpy as a piece of corn in a hot skillet.

I bend my head over the wax paper in front of me and pipe out the squat bodies for the chocolate ganache bees with which Mom plans to decorate the cake.

“Karen was shocked that our names weren’t listed first in the obituary. It should’ve been me and then you and then her and that child. How many people did I say were coming?” Mom’s sudden change of topic doesn’t confuse me. I’m used to it. I acquired my nervousness from her—not biologically but through the process of living with her for eighteen years. You take on the traits of those people you’re around. I’m firmly in the nuture-over-nature camp.