Page 119 of The Charlie Method

He’s right. The orphanage administrators would’ve told them, no? They must have.

But…I truly can’t see my parents knowing I had a brother out there somewhere and never tellingmeabout it. My gut says there’s more to this story, but Harrison seems convinced as he continues speaking.

“I thought maybe I wasn’t good enough. Too old for them—older kids come with more baggage, right? Babies are a shiny, clean slate.” He shrugs. “But after a while, I just accepted it. That was the way things were. It was out of my control.”

The pain in his voice is subtle, but it’s there, a sharp edge beneath his calm exterior. It makes my chest ache, knowing that while I was growing up in a warm, loving home, he had been left behind in a cold, unfamiliar world.

“I wish things had been different,” I say softly.

“Yeah. Me too.” He frowns. “They really never told you that you had a brother?”

I bite my lip. “No. But I’m not sure they knew. My parents aren’t secretive people. They’ve been nothing but transparent with me my entire life, especially about the adoption. I don’t know why they would be open about everything but leave this one thing out.”

“Maybe they didn’t want you looking for me.”

I hear his resentment again and try to steer the conversation away from my parents. It feels like dangerous territory.

“Do you remember anything about our biological parents?” I ask, wrapping my fingers around my mug. “Do you know why they left us there?”

“I don’t know if there was a ‘they.’ I don’t think our birth father was ever in the picture. Hell, I’m surprised our DNA test revealed we share the same one,” he admits. “I remember a lot of men coming in and out of our apartment before you were born.”

“We had a home?”

“Maybe? I have fuzzy memories of a cramped apartment. A dirty bedroom with one mattress on the floor.”

My heart squeezes. That sounds…bleak.

“Was our mother a prostitute?” I ask warily.

“I don’t know. Maybe. And I don’t remember having a father. No idea what his name is. I don’t know hers, either.”

“My adoption paperwork didn’t include any parent names,” I tell Harrison. “But I suppose that makes sense. I think child abandonment is illegal there, right? If the officials knew who our birth mom was, she probably would’ve been punished.”

“I have some memories of Umma—” He uses a Korean word, which he translates at my blank look. “Our mom. I remember some things about her but not a lot. I have a vague memory of her dropping us there. Leaving us. We took the bus, I remember that. And she didn’t have anything to leave you in, so she dug around in an alley full of garbage until she found, like, a plastic bucket or something.”

“Laundry basket,” I murmur, pain tugging at my gut. “My parents said the orphanage told them I was dropped off in a laundry basket.”

“Yeah, that was it. And you were screaming bloody murder.” He gives a wry smile. “I had this stuffed animal I used to drag around everywhere, so I put it in your basket. You were crying so hard, and I didn’t know how to make you stop, so I gave you the only thing I had to try to calm you down.”

“Was it a blue bunny?”

A small, sad smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “How on earth do you remember that? You were a baby.”

“I still have it, Harrison.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“No. My parents brought it back with us to the States.” I stare at him, my heart squeezing. “Tiger was yours?”

“Tiger?” he echoes with a laugh. “That wasn’t his name back then.”

“What was it?”

“Tokki.” He grins. “It’s Korean for bunny.”

“Do you speak Korean?” I ask, a bit envious at the notion.

One of my biggest regrets is that I didn’t let my parents force me to take Korean classes when I was still young enough to retain the language. I scoffed whenever they brought it up. I didn’t want to speak Korean. It felt too alienating to me. Why would I speak a language that none of my friends could speak? These days, IwishI knew a second language, especially my birth tongue.

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