I’m pivoting away from the door when one of the kneeling women rises, her black traditional Korean dress belling out like the bloom of a dark flower. The older woman shuffles toward us, confusion writ large across her face. I don’t need to know the language to guess that she wonders who the hell we are. Boyoung begins to speak, and with each Korean word that comes out of her mouth, my window of opportunity closes.

Boyoung softly translates. “You can bow if you’d like and then greet the family.”

“Family?” Why hadn’t I made that connection? This was my birth father. Of course the mourners would be my relatives. The rock in my stomach feels lighter, and something like excitement begins to bubble. I lean close to the older woman and inspect her face, looking for signs of familiarity. My mom, Ellen, looks a lot like her mother. They shared the same eyes, nose, and mouth. I don’t see any of myself in this round-cheeked woman with the downturned eyes. The skin around her cheeks has fallen. There are long, deep lines, and her eyes look tired. My eyes shift toward the younger woman, who is watching us curiously. Is this—my breath catches in my throat—my mother?

“Ah, no, I’m sorry. Not family. They are . . . the older lady is Yung Hyejin. She is—I mean, was your father’s landlady.”

My heart drops.

“And the other?”

“Your father’s . . . friend. Kwang Miok.” There’s a note of disapproval in Boyoung’s voice although I’m not sure if it’s because the friend came to the funeral or because my father had a girlfriend at his age. Then it strikes me that I don’t even know how old he was. I guess around forty-five based on his email where he said he was twenty when he learned of my bio mom’s pregnancy.

“You can light a stick of incense and lay your flower down next to the fruit on the table.” She clucks her tongue. “There should be plates, but there are not. Bow twice to the family,” Boyoung instructs. I do as she tells me, walking toward the small table that serves as the altar. I sink down in front of it and my fingers shake a little as I strike the match and light the incense stick. The smoke rises, snaking its way up toward the ceiling to join the other plumes like a tiny death cloud. Someone’s tears should fall from that, but everyone here is dry-eyed. Maybe crying isn’t appropriate at Korean funerals.

My gaze falls upon Lee Jonghyung’s portrait. The photo isn’t large—slightly bigger than the size of one of my school portraits Mom has hanging on the hallway wall. She bought the eight-by-ten-inch version each year and had them framed. The hallway served as a storyboard of sorts showing my progress through the years. At age five, I had three missing teeth and wore my hair in two pigtails. I wore dresses picked out by my mom. As I grew older, I smiled less, my hair was straighter, and my clothes were more casual. From ages eight through ten, I had a sports uniform. That was before Pat gave up on me. In my teen years, smiling during photos was for losers and straights. I wore too much blush and my eyeliner skills were tragic. The senior photos were taken at a park, because unlike other kids, I had hobbies that didn’t photograph well. There were only so many poses one could do with books.