“A while back,” I begin vaguely, not wanting to admit that my father’s announcement that he was having a biological child sent me into a panic at my big age, “I signed up for a DNA matching service on the internet. You send your blood in along with whatever details you have about your adoption, and then, if both parties consent, you are contacted if there’s a match. I didn’t get a response, so I figured either there was no match or my birth parents didn’t consent.” I tug the paper out from under Boyoung’s hand and trace a finger over the Hangul at the end. Lee Jonghyung. That was my father’s name—my biological father. My mind keeps inserting that adjective, as if I’m going to forget. “The sperm donor” would be Mom’s term for him. “I figured there was no match because, you know, I was left on the street.”
Boyoung nods again. I’d shared my backstory not long after Boyoung had met Mom. The questions filled her eyes but she was too polite, too well-mannered to ask even a single question, unlike Jeff, who shouted across the break room one day to ask what baby mart Ellen had bought me from. He got written up for that but I told HR it was no big deal. It wasn’t, either. His wasn’t the first dumb question I’d ever fielded on the matter of my relationship to Ellen. It didn’t bother me. Not really. Or, at least, not much.
But while I wouldn’t ever tell Jeff the circumstances of my adoption, the story spilled out to Boyoung without much thought. After dinner at my house, we’d gone out for ice cream, and over a giant banana split that was nearly bigger than my head, I’d told her that at a few weeks old, I’d been left on the street near a police station in Mapo-gu, a busy and central neighborhood in the capital city of Seoul. A policeman found me and took me to an orphanage, where I was fostered out. I stayed with a foster family until I was adopted at the age of one by the Wilsons.
“Your abeoji—I mean, your father consented to this information being shared?” Boyoung’s girlish voice is pitched one octave higher in disbelief. She clears her throat and tries again. “You should be careful. I love my country, but there are bad people everywhere. This person probably wants to take advantage of you. Many in Korea believe that all of you Westerners are rich, especially Americans.”
“He didn’t consent. He didn’t reach out to me at all, in fact. There was a data breach and the system sent me his name and contact information.” Lee Jonghyung. That would make me a Lee. Hara Lee sounds pretty Asian. To be more precise, it would be Lee Hara.
Boyoung taught me that the last name—the name of a person’s clan—always comes first because that’s the Confucian ideal. Family first. But, obviously, not always, because I was left on a street corner and then sent to America, so sometimes it was every man—and child—for himself. Not that I’m resentful. I don’t have any right to be. I have a great mom. I have a job, a condo, a ten-year-old car, good health insurance, and no debt. That’s a lot for a millennial. No, I’m not resentful, and if I keep telling myself that, the sour feeling in my stomach will eventually settle. “I waited. I deleted the message.” I smile wryly at my own mind games. “But I fished it out from the trash and sent him a message. This is his reply.”
I am Lee Jonghyung. When I was twenty, I was told by my sweetheart that I had gotten her pregnant. I did not believe the baby was mine and sent her away. But now I wonder if it was you. My heart is heavy and I am afraid that if I do not reconcile this issue, my ancestors will reject me upon my death. I would like to meet you.
“Hara, what if it was not your father? You said it was a data breach. This could be any random person. Why did you not ask for my help?” Boyoung is distressed. Really distressed.
Her concern spikes my blood pressure. “I . . . I thought I could do it myself.”
And I wasn’t ready to share this. I’m not ready now, but I was so uncertain of my own translation and I didn’t trust the internet, so I came to you.
Boyoung presses her lips together in a disapproving line before holding out her hand. “Let me have the email and I will do some research for you. Once I find out who this man is, I’ll help you write a response. I don’t want someone to take advantage of you.”
I curl fingers protectively around the printout, as if the email isn’t starred in my inbox and couldn’t be reprinted a thousand times. “It’s okay. I’m not going to do anything rash. I was curious.”