The plastic bracelet on the baby’s wrist came with a barcode, tagging her like merchandise. Ireland. Room 315. Though unlike something from the store, an exchange or return was probably out of the question. Not even if she came with design flaws like the floppy neck she had, or the overbite. Kate imagined the girl at ten, still staring at her with those impassive eyes, waiting for her diaper change. She didn’t know what to say. Their first meeting hadn’t brought her the maternal elation that movies, TV shows and Pampers commercials had suggested it would. That sense of possessiveness just wasn’t there. Her arms quickly grew tired and she found a spot on her lower belly to rest the alien beast. Finally it was of some use—self-heating rag doll perched over her sad crotch, infant balm for her grove of maternal ache.

“You’re going to snap her spine! Jesus, Katie.”

Mary-Sue snatched the bundle from her. She rocked the baby in her arms, leaving lipstick traces on her little simian forehead.

“Oh, I’m so greedy! I’m just so greedy to eat you up, my baby!”

The rest of the evening, Kate barely got another chance to try again. Mary-Sue refused to surrender her. She looked only at the baby, smiled only at the baby, spoke only to the baby. “You’ve come to save the world, haven’t you?” “You’re going to do great things, aren’t you?” “You’ll love your nana, won’t you?”

Three days passed in lost sleep and strange new baby sounds and smells. Kate’s student Cora Ahn dropped by the house with an inelegant flat of Asian pears to congratulate her, but it was really an excuse for her to bring over Mrs. Park’s letter and solicit praise for her translation.

At dinner, Mary-Sue insisted on reading it and Kate was too exhausted to object.

My Dearest Kee Hyun,

I am writing to you on our tenth anniversary because I have neither the eloquence nor the confidence to share these thoughts with you, face to face. I have always felt that you were like some kind of a saint—a man so wise he would instantly recognize the terrible qualities in myself that I had not even known were there.

At this very moment, while I am composing this letter at the kitchen table, you have locked yourself in the bedroom again to write Sunday’s sermon. It is the only time of the week when I feel I am not being watched upon or judged by you. Again, this is not a complaint but an expression of how safe and well taken care of I am in your company.