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Yujun laces his fingers through mine. “It’s going to be okay.”
“Yujun-ah, when your father brought me home that first time so many years ago, he left us alone so that we could talk. We needed that time together. Do you remember?”
I can feel the pressure lessen on my hand, so I grip him harder. Wansu somehow senses he’s wavering, too, that mother’s intuition, and presses forward. “I promise to bring your friend for dinner tonight. It will be a celebration.”
“No.”
Yujun squeezes my hand and then releases me. “Eomma is right. You should talk by yourselves. I’ll wait here, though.” He points to one of the white leather chairs.
I want to haul him back by my side.
“It will be a long time,” Wansu interjects. She doesn’t want him to stick around, which makes me instantly suspicious. Does Wansu plan to get rid of me somehow? Have the office assistant drive me to Incheon and shove me onto the first flight back to America? Or maybe she will just toss me out the window.
“I’ll wait here.” He says it with a slight smile and a brief nod, but the tone is firm. He walks over to one of the white leather chairs, flips back his suitcoat, and seats himself. He’s not moving and it reassures me in a hundred different ways. I won’t be left behind—at least not by Yujun.
The two stare at each other for a long, silent moment. A whole conversation takes place that I don’t understand because I don’t have the years of familiarity that these two have built. I’m on the outside of their family circle even though Wansu is my blood mother and Yujun’s stepmother. The unfairness of it is like a slap across my face, and bitterness fills my mouth.
Wansu’s lips tighten almost imperceptibly. She’s annoyed, maybe even angered, but other than the slight twitch of her lips, none of it shows. She turns away dismissively and gestures me inside the office again.
My limbs are heavy and the drumbeat in my head thuds loud enough that I’m certain everyone in a twenty-foot radius can hear it, but I move forward.
Choi Wansu’s office is glass and steel and white walls with monochromatic paintings. There’s a tiny bit of color in the paintings, but it’s negligible and could be mistaken for shadows cast by the light overhead. Either Wansu or her decorator hates color, and all of it has been discarded, much like me. I was like a blot of color in Wansu’s life and so she abandoned me to make way for something sleeker, smarter—my eyes slide to the door that Wansu is closing—someone tall, handsome, smart, kind . . . better.
I stiffen my spine and raise my head. I’m not the one at fault here. Why should I be cowering in the middle of the room like a child called to the front of the class to explain some infraction? I’m the one with the questions. I’m the one who didn’t screw up here.
I clasp my hands at my back and pretend that it’s a privilege for her to have me standing here. I resume my inspection of Wansu’s surgically precise setup. One side of the room holds floor-to-ceiling glass panels overlooking downtown Seoul. There’s a large painting on the wall facing the desk that looks like two giant brushes dipped in black paint where whipped across a canvas. Behind the desk is a marble-clad wall with illuminated niches holding metal and glass sculptures. The wall opposite the windows holds the only signs of personalization. There are framed plaques and a console table with pictures, but everything is precisely placed.
Most of the photos are of Wansu getting an award. She’s depicted shaking hands with someone while holding a padded portfolio open displaying something important that I don’t understand. One of the award photos is not with Koreans, and the banner hanging behind Wansu is in English. I pick it up. Entrepreneur of the Year, International Association for the Advancement of Women.
Ellen’s home has none of these. Ellen doesn’t even have an office. She has a kitchen and a craft room that’s messy and maddening because I can’t ever find a safety pin when I need one because Ellen doesn’t believe in organization. Or white things. I engage in a moment of self-loathing as I think of all the times that I’ve mentally criticized Ellen for being messy. I send my mom a silent apology.
“Sit,” Wansu barks with the demeanor of someone who is used to giving orders and having them followed. “Please,” she adds.
I don’t do as she’s ordered. Wansu doesn’t get to tell me what to do. Wansu has no hold over me—not like she has over Yujun. Because Yujun loves her and that love holds him in check. The thought makes my stomach clench. He’s had my mother’s love all these years.
