Page 78 of Heart and Seoul (Seoul 1)

I nod slowly. My father was a predator, then. An older man who hung around high schools to woo young girls. I feel sick.

“I got pregnant, too, you see. But my baby did not survive and I could not have any children after that, so you cannot be my daughter.” She recites these details as if she’s reading the ingredients list off a bottle of detergent. Alcohol, sulfate, citric acid, I had a miscarriage, ethanol. Kwon Hyeun reaches over and taps the paper. “But her. She is your mother.”

“H-how can you be sure?”

“Choi Wansu left school and then returned to the city after a year. I’ve kept track of her.” Kwon Hyeun shrugs nonchalantly because low-key stalking a woman for a quarter of a century is no big deal. “She married very well to a widower and then took his company for herself. You can look her up on Naver. There are many articles about her success. She fosters young women, particularly single mothers, and donates many won to adoption charities.” Kwon Hyeun arches an eyebrow. “We do not have to wonder why those are things she chooses to champion, do we?”

“No.” A coldness is creeping through my veins. I fold my hands on top of each other and try to squeeze some warmth back into the chilled digits.

“She is very wealthy now. I am surprised she hasn’t tried to find you, but maybe she does not want to.” Kwon Hyeun may not have meant to be hurtful, but it feels like she’s taken my fork and stabbed me with it.

Wounded, I struggle for breath before pulling out my phone and swiping to the album I’d made with the scans of the photos. I have to be sure. “Which one of these is Choi Wansu?”

“A test?” Kwon Hyeun takes the phone and flips through the images. She stops at one and lays the screen in front of me. “Her.”

It’s the photo that’s labeled Na Y——, but I realize now that the Y was actually a W and the coffee Boyoung spilled washed away most of the ink, leaving the last name and a distorted part of the first letter—or Hangul character in this case.

My head is reeling with all the information that Kwon Hyeun has shared. The woman was once pregnant with my half sister. My dad was a horrible person. My mother . . . fuck . . . my mother’s name is Choi Wansu.

“What will you do?” The question is accompanied by a piercing stare. The flat brown eyes bore into mine.

Look her up, storm her castle, tear down her gates, wave my adoption papers in front of her face, scream why why why over and over again. “I don’t know.”

Disappointment flashes through the other woman’s eyes, but her tone is calm, friendly even, when she speaks again. “The paper I have given you has her name, her work address, her home address, and KakaoTalk profile. You have everything you need to contact her. Your friend is coming.” Kwon Hyeun stands and swings an expensive Chanel bag over her shoulder, but she doesn’t leave. She plants a hand on the table and leans down to stare at me, and this time her eyes are swimming in emotion. She’s been holding back all this time, trying not to break down in front of me.

Her voice thick, she says, “If you were my daughter and I had the means, I would’ve spent anything to track you down instead of avoiding you as if you weren’t the most important thing to me.” She reaches out to press a finger against my face. “I would not have given you up. I would have fought my parents for you. I would have fought King Sejong for you. Remember that when you meet Choi Wansu.” Something—bitterness, regret, pain—twists Kwon Hyeun’s mouth. Her finger falls away, leaving a burning sensation where she touched me. Then, as if she can’t hold back the flood of tears, she hurries off. I don’t try to stop her. I can’t even move. Her words have hammered me into my chair.

Boyoung approaches with concern on her face. “Was that . . . Kwon Hyeun?”

I manage a nod but no words. Choi Wansu . . . a poor woman who married money . . . who is into adoption causes. It’s a coincidence. It has to be a coincidence. This is a country with fifty million people. Choi isn’t an uncommon last name. There have to be hundreds of thousands of Chois here in Seoul. I turn the paper over and over in my hands. A coincidence. I jump to my feet, rush past a bewildered Boyoung, and take the steps two at a time, but Kwon Hyeun is gone when I reach the street.

I grab my neck and squeeze it to prevent the scream of frustration that is building at the base of my throat. I drop my hand to my purse and pluck out my phone. My text to Yujun is half-written when I stop.

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