Cover

Dedication

To those who did not believe me,

you broke me with your decision.

And to those who stepped forward

and spoke your truth, despite the odds,

you put me back together again.

Content warning: this book contains scenes
depicting sexual harassment and rape.

One

Claire

Shanghai, China

I lie in bed listening for the shuffle of my father’s slippers. It’s 7:30 a.m. My father, if he were home, would be in the kitchen, sitting down to his breakfast: three egg whites, scrambled, with oatmeal—doctor’s orders—which he would remark to Tressy, our maid, were either overcooked or undercooked, just so he could get up and go rummaging around the kitchen for one of the taro buns he’s not supposed to eat but that my mother secretly buys for him anyway. She buys them for him because she hopes the sweet gooey taro will somehow lure him away from his mistress, providing the kind of warmth and stickiness that will make him want to come home.

Except that his mistress also knows to buy him taro buns.

I’ve never met her, but the other week, she tried to add me on WeChat. I stared at her picture for almost an hour, trying to decide if she was prettier than my mom. She looked about twenty-five—half my father’s age—with long flowing hair, styled curly and tinted red at the tips. Her hand was running casually through her hair, pulling her shirt up just enough to reveal her milky-white skin. The whole thing looked so effortless and staged at the same time, the kind of shot I try and try to take but can never get right.

I deleted the friend request and didn’t tell my mom about it, though maybe I should have. It was bold of her to reach out to me. There have been others, I’m sure. But none of them dared make contact.

I close my eyes, sinking back into my bed, trying not to think about what this means. Or where my dad is, for that matter.

The softness of my mother’s hand on my cheek wakes me hours later. My mom’s sitting on the bed, staring at me. Like a creep.

“Mom, ew, what are you doing?” I squirm away from the light pouring in from the window, burying my face in the sheets.

“It’s nearly noon,” she says in Mandarin. She’s wearing big Chanel sunglasses.

“You okay?” I ask her, peering at her sunglasses.

She nods. “Oh, yeah, just allergies. Probably from the pollution,” she lies.

I glance out the window. The Shanghai sky, normally gross and gray, looks peacefully white today, like those might actually be clouds we’re seeing.

Her shades slide down an inch, and when I turn to look at her, I catch a glimpse of her red, swollen eyes underneath.

“Is it Dad?” I ask gently.