Kim Eunshil

Kwon Hyeun

Kim Jihye

Lee Mi—

Na Y—

The last two on the list are likely wrong because the ink smeared, but it’s the best that I can make out. The final Hangul character appears to be a vowel, but it could also be ya or yae or ae or eo or yeo. Hell, I don’t know. I find the Naver app and type in the names. I can’t read the Hangul, but I scroll through the pictures, hoping one of them sparks recognition.

Boyoung said there was some of Lee Jonghyung in me, but I couldn’t see it at the funeral and I don’t see it now. While I don’t like admitting this, part of me thought that if I saw one of my biological parents, I’d immediately know them. Some part of me would acknowledge some part of them. As I scan the results, all I see are words I don’t understand and people I don’t recognize.

Frustration and self-loathing creep through me. Why am I so dumb about everything? Why didn’t I scan these photos into my phone before taking them out? Why didn’t I learn Korean at some point in my life? Why do I even care so much about what anyone thinks, especially my dead dad—either of them? Who cares? Who cares? Who cares? I drop the phone and squeeze my nose bridge.

My heart is racing and a damp sweat breaks out along my hairline. The usual bindings I have wrapped around my emotions are fraying. I close my eyes and take a breath . . . and then another.

Get a grip, Hara, I order. You have a translation app. There are people who will help you. Stop dramatizing things.

I inhale again and pick up the phone. The first thing is to triangulate the age of the women I’m looking for. My birth mother was likely young and unwed, so I need to be searching for people within the ages of forty-three and, maybe, forty-seven? That narrows it down. And I have names. Granted I can’t fully make out two of them, but three names and an identifiable year of birth are a lot. I pull out a notebook and make five columns. This is going to be challenging but not impossible.

As I’m creating my matrix, a text message pops up.

YUJUN: It’s me. By my count, it’s been fourteen hours since we last saw each other and that’s too long.

The next text is an address.

YUJUN: You need to have korean beef. Best in the world. My treat. What time?

It’s more of a demand than an invitation. The way it’s worded . . . well, I can hardly say no. It’s as if Yujun pulled the brake on my hamster wheel just as it was about to hit five hundred miles per hour and break away from the stand to go clattering off the counter and into a traffic pattern of doom. I can almost feel his long fingers curl around my shoulder and squeeze. At a time like this, when all of my life seems so uncertain, having Yujun is a comfort. So, yes, I do need Korean beef, especially if it’s the best in the world, along with every other morsel of joy that being with Yujun brings.