Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
I love them dearly, but my entire family is a bunch of overachievers.
Mom can whip up a soufflé from scratch and has a PhD in mathematics. She doesn’t make people call her doctor, though. She’s not that pompous.
Dad runs his own multimillion-dollar cybersecurity firm from his upstairs office.
Ava, who’s four years older than me, landed her dream job right out of college, with a salary so high she can afford to live in a two-bedroom apartment in Manhattan instead of a roach-infested studio.
Oliver, six years older, is on track to become the youngest partner at the firm where he practices family law.
They’re nauseatingly successful and well-adjusted, every last one of them. Even Katherine, Oliver’s wife, fits that mold. Kat works for an organization that fights child trafficking and reunites survivors with their parents. Oliver literally chose to marry the one person who’s even more perfect than he is.
“That’s fantastic news.” Mom is beaming at Ava, who just shared the news that she’s in line for a promotion. Because of course she is. “I’m so proud of you, honey.”
“What about you, peanut?” Smiling at me, Dad slices off a piece of apple crumble using the side of his fork. “Any accomplishment or met goal?”
“I got an A on my last bio test.”
The answer feels like a cop-out.
But what else am I going to say? I accomplished a car hookup with a wide receiver?
Dad would probably choke on his dessert. He’d be all right, though, since everyone in my family is trained in life-saving techniques, including the Heimlich maneuver. It was Mom’s idea to take a family CPR and rescue skills class one summer—for fun. Her idea of fun differs greatly from mine.
You can always tell them you accomplished sending a DNA sample to a genealogy site.
Ugh. My inner critic is such a belligerent bitch.
Fine. Fine, okay? I suppose this is a solid opening. Segue from accomplishments to an exciting new development in my life.
Guess what! I’m looking for my real family!
Oh my God. What if they take it that way? I don’t want them to think I’m ungrateful or like they’re not enough for me.
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’m still happy 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 they are my siblings. They are my 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? I hate emotional 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, like I 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.