Page 103 of Heart and Seoul (Seoul 1)

I don’t really want to talk to Wansu until I talk to Mom, and I’m not sure what I should do about Bomi. Yujun is working, so that leaves Jules. I go downstairs to find her.

Except it’s not her at the kitchen table. It’s a good thing the phone is in my pocket and not in my hand or I would’ve dropped it.

“Mom.”

Ellen rises, an uncertain smile quavering across her mouth, before she pastes on a bright expression and rushes over to hug me.

I step to the side and her arms fall to her sides.

“One of your roommates let me in before they left. I decided to come over and surprise you.”

“I know.”

I can tell she’s about to say something else, some excuse, so I shake my head. I don’t want to hear the lies anymore.

“Are you going tell me about it or try to pretend like nothing is wrong?”

“There are options?” she tries to joke. Her voice wobbles as tears threaten to spill. I look away because crying makes me uncomfortable. Plus, I might be tempted to rashly move on.

“No. No options.” I jerk my head to the chair. “Let’s talk.”

Ellen slumps into the chair and it reminds me of the times when I got in trouble as a kid and she would tick off all my wrongs on her fingers, including the ones I’d committed years before. Ellen had the memory of an elephant.

“I’ll start. I met Choi Wansu.”

Ellen flinches as if I struck her. I fold my arms across my chest and wait as Ellen looks at the ceiling, rubs her lips together, and basically does anything but answer my question. When I was eight or nine or maybe ten—it was before Pat left us—I’d snuck into Ellen’s bathroom and tried on her Yves Saint Laurent lipstick. It was a gorgeous red color and I’d always wanted to use it. She told me no because I was too young and because it was expensive at thirty bucks a tube. Not having much of any experience with makeup, I wound the whole stub up and applied it one day while she was running an errand. The lipstick broke off and dropped on the counter. I cleaned up the red stain, placed the broken makeup back into the tube, and shoved the container back into Ellen’s purse. Three days later, she dragged me into the kitchen, sat me in a chair, and waggled the tube in front of me. I remained silent, thinking stupidly that if I never spoke, the problem would go away. I guess I learned that tactic from her.

“You sent her reports about me every month until six months ago. Why’d you stop?”

“You turned twenty-five.”

I blink in surprise. I hadn’t made the connection to my birthday and the stoppage. The reasoning still escapes me. “Why twenty-five? Why not eighteen or twenty or sixteen? Why send them at all? Why not tell me? Why hide it? Why?” I demand.

“Because you’re mine!” Ellen cries out. She pounds her chest. “Mine. I raised you. It was me. Not her. She gave you up and I chose you. I sent her thirteen years of reports and I was done. Done, do you hear me?”

My ears ring with her words as I grab the roll of paper towels off the counter and hold it in front of her. She tears off a sheet and presses it to her face.

“I know you hate it when I cry,” she sobs. I pat her shoulder awkwardly. Yes, I do. I’m Pat’s child, too, after all. Curse him anyway. “I knew this would happen. I should’ve ripped up your ticket the minute I saw it.”

And I should’ve known then.

“Making me out to be some kind of secretary. Demanding to see you.”

My hand flies to my throat. “What did you say?”

“She wanted to meet you. Said that it was her right. She had no rights to you. Just because she gave me some money to help through the lean times doesn’t mean that she had rights to you.”

I draw back the paper towels to my chest. The things I’d said to Choi Wansu, how I accused her of trying to buy me off, settle inside me like a rotten fruit. No wonder her first instinct was to ask how much. Mom had been taking her money all these years, and then, when Wansu wanted something more than impersonal monthly reports, she’d been shut out. I feel like a piece of shit. I swallow around the hard rock in my throat.

“What exactly was the deal?”

Ellen sniffles, wipes her eyes, and then reaches for another towel, but I keep the roll pressed to my chest. “What was the deal? When did it happen? What did you tell her? How much did she pay you?” I want to know it all.

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