For twelve agonizing years, I was the envy of my neighborhood. Every single year, without fail, eight thousand dollars appeared in my bank account from South Korea, a mysterious annual lifeline sent by my daughter, Mary Lou. My friends called me the luckiest mother alive, praising me for raising a daughter so devoted, so saintly, and so successful. I held onto those bank transfers like talismans, desperate to believe they were proof of her happiness in a faraway land. But bank statements are cold, lifeless things; they cannot tell you if your child is truly loved, or if she is drowning in a nightmare she is too proud to admit.
I lost my husband years ago, and I poured every ounce of my soul into raising Mary Lou. She was my world, my purpose, and my best friend. When she turned twenty-one and announced she was marrying Kang Jun, a man twenty years her senior, my heart plummeted. It wasn’t just the vast age gap or the daunting prospect of her moving to the other side of the world; it was a gut instinct that told me this man was not the partner she deserved. I fought it, but Mary Lou possessed a legendary stubbornness. Once her mind was set, there was no changing her course. I watched her walk through airport security with tears streaming down my face, clinging to the naive hope that she would return to visit whenever she could.
