She flips through the photos, hesitating when she gets to the third one.

Excitement spikes. I lean forward. “Do you recognize her?”

She shakes her head. “This will be very hard. Do you have any papers? Anything?”

“My mom had stuff from the adoption agency. Like how good of an eater I was. That I could use a spoon. That I smiled when I was around other people. I played well.” The documentation from the orphanage wasn’t extensive. Mom said it was because it was a private adoption and they weren’t required to keep many records, so my file was thin—a half dozen papers and a few pictures. One of them made me look like a prison inmate—if babies were in prison.

Boyoung grimaces slightly. “You were so young.”

I shrug. “It’s fine. I mean . . . it is what it is. I don’t think it matters if you’re given up when you’re two months or two years. It’s all the same.” I’d come to terms with it long ago. I was abandoned by one woman but chosen by another. You can dwell on the shitty parts of life or the good parts. I opt for the latter, although . . . does poring over these photos really mean I’m looking forward and not back? No. This is more like a genealogical study than anything else. A data-mining operation. A fact-finding mission. Cold, impersonal facts.

The disc on the table buzzes. Boyoung hops up. “I’ll get the drinks.”

While Boyoung is off at the counter, I look through the photos again, wishing that they were taken closer so I could better make out their features. Why don’t I recognize even one of them? I hold up the third one, the one that Boyoung stopped at, and wait for something to stir inside me. Is that my nose on the woman? Is that my forehead? How about the neck or the fingers? We have a similar figure, fairly straight and not much on top, although the woman in the picture is more slender.

“How will you find these women?”

I jolt in surprise, the photos falling out of my hands onto the table. I hadn’t realized Boyoung had returned.

“Do internet searches, I suppose.” I take my iced Americano and gulp down a good dose of cold caffeine. “I emailed the DNA company yesterday and told them I deserved to know if there were any other matches—brothers, sisters, cousins.”

“What about those other people? What if their families don’t know that you were given away?”

This gives me pause. I hadn’t given thought to the other people—only me—and it hits me how selfish that is. “I want to know,” I say slowly. “I don’t want to interrupt their lives or take anything from them. It’s just . . . if they’re out there, I want to know. Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you want to know the story? Wouldn’t you want to know if you have sisters and brothers out there? Or cousins or aunts and uncles?”