Page 13 of The Charlie Method

This is just something I’m compelled to do. Something that’s haunted me for the past few years. I was adopted when I was eight months old. I have no idea where I came from. And for the longest time, I didn’t care to find out. There were questions in the back of my mind, of course, but seeking answers didn’t feel necessary, critical. I was happy with my friends and my family and my life. I’mstillhappy with all those things.

But lately, the need for answers won’t quit nagging at me.

I want to understand, I suppose. I want to know who my birth parents are. Or were, if they’re no longer alive. I want to know why my birth mother abandoned me. Why she felt it was the only choice for her.

My parents said she dropped me off at the orphanage in Seoul in a plastic laundry basket, a blue stuffed bunny tucked against my side. I still have that bunny. His name is Tiger. Oliver named him. My parents told me that when they brought me home and introduced me to Oliver and Ava, my new siblings were besotted with me almost immediately.

And theyaremy siblings. Theyaremy parents. I’ve never referred to any of them as “my adoptive brother,” “my adoptive mom.” Screw that. They’re my mom and dad. Oliver is my brother. Ava is my sister. They’re the only family I’ve ever known, and I love them dearly.

A groan gets stuck in my throat. Damn it, why did I join that site? Ihateemotional chaos. Or any chaos, for that matter. Only when I’m living my other life, the one where I’m not expected to be flawless, am I allowed to welcome the anarchy. That life is chock-full of risk and excitement.

This one…not so much.

I snap out of my thoughts, realizing my perfect opening has closed and the spotlight is now on Kat, who says she reached her goal of walking ten thousand daily steps for a week, and then we’re done.

Our table tradition is cheesy, I know, but it’s not as pretentious as it sounds. My parents want us to feel proud of ourselves and what we do, even if the accomplishment is something minor, likeI went for a walk today, and the air felt nice on my face. The exercise is about embracing the positives.

As we clear the table, Oliver and I chat about a brutal custody case he’s handling at his firm. It’s uncanny how much he looks like our dad, down to the natural part of his sandy-blond hair and the shape of his fingernails. And Ava is a carbon copy of Mom—same thick, light-brown hair, impossibly long lashes, even the flecks of gray around her blue irises.

Then there’s me. When I was younger, I used to stare at my reflection in the mirror and wonder which one of my biological parents I looked like. I don’t think it matters, though. They didn’t want me. So why would I want to look like them?

I’m not bitter about it. Not really. I know some people harbor complicated feelings about their adoption, but I’m genuinely grateful for the life I’ve been given and the family into which I was welcomed. They treated me like one of them, a full-blown Kingston, from the moment they laid eyes on me.

Oliver and I carry the dirty dishes into the kitchen, where Mom is rolling up her sleeves in front of the sink.

“Go hang out with Dad,” I tell my brother. “I can help Mom in here.”

“Thanks, kiddo.”

Once he’s gone, my mother and I stand side by side at the sink, rinsing plates. She makes the mistake of asking about Delta Pi, causing me to groan and complain about Agatha for a good ten minutes.

“You thinkshe’sbad?” Mom says when I come up for air, passing me a plate to load into the dishwasher. “Her mother is a hundred times worse.”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.”

Agatha’s mother, Lillian, is one of our alumni advisors. She’s there to “support” the executive board, but really, she uses the monthly check-ins as opportunities to stick her nose into every minute detail of the house and lecture us about what we’re doing wrong. The apple did not fall far from the tree in that family. They’re so alike they’re still sharing the same branch.

“God,” Mom says with a groan. “Lillian used to conduct this thing called a shine test.”

“What do you mean? Like for your shoes?”

“For your hair.”

“Seriously?”

“Yup. Before an important dinner party or an event, she’d have all the sisters line up outside our bedroom doors while she moved down the line and examined our hair. She’d make us tilt our head until it caught the light injustthe right way and assess how shiny it looked. And if you didn’t pass the shine test…”

“What would she do? Beat you?” I gasp.

“Yes, Charlotte, she beat us.”

“What?”

“No! Of course she didn’t do that!” Mom starts to laugh. “If there was enough time for us to redo our hair, she would allow that. If there wasn’t, we wouldn’t be permitted to attend the event.”

“That’s all it takes to skip out on those boring things? Have your hair at eighty percent shine instead of a hundred? Why can’t Agatha be like that?”

After we finish loading the dishwasher, I wash my hands, then reach for a floral-patterned dish towel to dry them off.

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