I’ve only met my father through these snapshots. He’s got these high cheekbones, a square jaw, thick-thick lips, and big brown eyes with lashes that curl up like a beautiful black girl’s. In my favorite picture, gold tassels dangle from the shoulders of his crisp white officer’s uniform. He stands in front of the U.S. Embassy and above his pomaded jet-black hair the flags dance in a tango. His officer’s cap is stiff and flawless. It is held to his chest like a pledge saying, I am your humble servant. But his eyes look like he’s going to eat you up if you look at him for too long. I can’t help but stare and stare.

You might not see these photos for many years. You might not understand for many more. But I’m telling you, because if I keep you, maybe you’ll turn out like him and you deserve to know these things. When you’re kicking inside of me, I imagine you’re just as stubborn as my Ba. And I’ll tell you a secret, just you: your dad—he somehow looked like Ba. Same wicked smile. Same long eyelashes curling into the heavens. Same full lips that were in themselves a meal. Maybe that’s why I gave it up so easily.

A psychic once told me that I would have twin boys. It was this last summer when I turned sixteen. Your aunt Elle and I decided to take a road trip across America while both our moms were away in Spain. We were like wild yearling mares, nostrils flaring, eager to stamp through life. Elle had saved enough money from her job at Chevy’s to buy a banana-yellow, big as a boat, 69 Mercedes that drank only diesel. We floated past the Sierra Nevada mountains and the Southwest deserts and through an ocean of corn fields, until finally, we entered Louisiana.

In New Orleans, we ended up in a two-room shop in an alleyway off Bourbon Street that had an entire wall from top to bottom of glass jars filled with herb concoctions. On the other wall, sequined and feathered Mardi Gra masks hung in festive shades of sapphires, violets, and pinks. In a small back room, I sat on an oval-backed velvet chair across from the psychic. He sat daintily with one leg crossed over his knee and his hands folded in his lap. He asked me only for my name. Beneath the blanket of burning incense and his Drakkar Noir cologne, he told me my life story.