Together we look in the direction of Kim Jihye, who is inching toward the exit door. I grab Boyoung’s hand. “Please help me. I want to talk to her. To ask about—you know. Can you help me?”

Boyoung squeezes my hand. “Yes. Stay here.”

She hurries over to the other woman’s side. The two engage in a brief conversation. I’m not sure what Boyoung is saying, but it works—whatever it is. Boyoung gestures for me to come join them.

“She’ll have a cup of coffee and hear you out.”

I nearly collapse on the floor in relief. “Thank you. Wonderful.” I turn to Kim Jihye, who is eyeing me warily, and bow. “Thank you. Gamshamnida.”

At the coffeehouse, Boyoung places the order and I pay.

“Do you have the photograph?” Boyoung asks when we settle at an empty table.

“Yes.” I pull out the original, barely able to take my eyes off the older woman. She has a short bob that curls close to her chin, and she’s wearing what seems to be the office worker uniform of dark slacks and a white button-down shirt. There’s a small flower broach pinned above her left breast. It looks old—either Kim Jihye has a liking for vintage or it could’ve belonged to my grandmother. There’s a whole slew of questions on the tip of my tongue. Is Kim Jihye married? Do I have siblings? Are my grandparents still alive? Can I go to Kim Jihye’s house and look at all the photos, see where she sleeps—okay, maybe not that, but the rest of it, yes, I want answers to all of it.

Boyoung says something to Kim Jihye, who then picks up the photo. She stares at it for a long moment, shakes her head, and then sets it down. I don’t like the look on the woman’s face. It’s denial. I want her to pick it up again. I want the woman to explain how she met Lee Jonghyung. Was it at school? At a club? Were they neighbors? How long were they in contact? What happened to end the relationship? Why did Kim Jihye give me up?

“She says she doesn’t remember Lee Jonghyung-nim,” Boyoung says.

“No.” That’s not the way this meeting is supposed to go. “Ask her to look again.”

Boyoung points to the picture, but Kim Jihye shakes her head again. She says something in Korean and this time I don’t need to know the language to understand it.

I lean forward. “Please, try to remember,” I plead.

Boyoung shoots me a sympathetic look. “She says she doesn’t recall him and that she’s never had any children. She’s very sorry.”

That can’t be the end of it. I refuse to take this answer. “I know it’s long ago.” I pull out a printed copy of the email he sent me. “Maybe this will help.”

“I am sorry,” interjects Kim Jihye in heavily accented English. Her eyes meet mine directly, and as much as I want the outcome to be different, the sincerity in her gaze tells me that the answers I seek are not with her. Kim Jihye is not my mother. A rock in my throat, I fold the email into a tiny packet and tuck it back in my purse.