Jun’s eyes shot up and locked on mine, shock filling their depths as neither of us spoke.
Clearly this job would be harder than I thought.
“But I know where to start.”
Two hours later, Jun was arranging interviews with as-needed childcare professionals, Yejin sitting patiently at the table while he bounced between his cellphone and washing fruit he planned to slice for a snack for her. I watched from the balcony of the second floor as I poured through a list of assistants the company had hired as temps for other clients. As long as I got him someone who could get him through this transition period, I didn’t need to find a permanent person. He could keep the temp, or find someone else. I just had to fill the gaps, so I didn’t have to do it anymore.
“Now, listen, Yejin. I want you to practice your English as much as you can while we’re here, okay? You’ll need to use it in school.”
“Okay, daddy,” she said smoothly in response, switching easily between her two primary languages. Hell, it’d taken me years to pick up a second language as an almost adult, and here she was at seven, a veritable prodigy already.
Of course she was. Look at the people she grew up around.
I couldn’t stifle the tears that threatened to fall the second she walked in from the outside and fell all over Jun, seeking his approval, eager to tell him about all the cool things she liked about their new house.
He’d pulled her into his lap and immediately indulged her, listening intently like the good dad he was.
A stray tear fell on the screen of my tablet as I sighed and blinked the rest of them back, refusing to let myself imagine what it would have been like had I stayed, had we just left and embarked as parents on our own, together. There was no pointimagining something that I couldn’t undo. Time travel wasn’t real, and dreams didn’t fill the gas tank.
She’s not yours anymore,I told myself, but see, when you’ve never seen the thing you’re giving up, it’s infinitely easier to walk away from it. When you don’t know what someone sounds like, what kind of person they are, what they’ll look like and how they smile, you can’t know what you’re going to miss.
But here I was, confronted with her in reality. I could see her smile, hear her perfect little laugh, and bask in the joy of her childhood. She had red hair, just like me, but it was a tad darker in spots, almost like when she turned her head a certain way, parts of her father bled out and showed their face.
“Daddy, who’s the nice lady you were talking to earlier?” Yejin kicked her feet back and forth as she waited patiently, processing everything around her with a quickness I envied.
I heard the metal clang of the knife hitting the inside of the sink, and my eyes found him standing stock-still in the kitchen, his back to his daughter, hands still poised to slice into the apple he’d just washed. For a long time, I held my breath, wondering what he’d say to her.
Would he tell her the truth? Or would he keep up the lie, for her sake?
Did I even want her to know about me?
Most of the voice in my head was in agreement with Jun: she shouldn’t know. But a small part of me yearned to know my daughter, to be her mother, even though I didn’t deserve it.
“Ahem,” I cleared my throat pointedly, peering down from the railing as Jun turned around. “I have some potential assistants lined up to interview with you tomorrow, if you’re available.”
His eyes were stony and indifferent as he shrugged and picked the knife back up. “Just pick one. You know what I like.”
I did, indeed.
“Of course. I’ll get right on it.”
I slipped away before he could say anything in return, already skimming the prospective list to narrow it down. Jun had specific tastes, and I wanted things to be as smooth as possible for him. The easier the transition, the easier it would be to slip away.
When I’d gone through the list several times, I still had three names on the list that were prospective candidates based on their performance, strengths, experience, and age.
Dylan, Connor, Merchand, and Vincent. All fine, upstanding . . .men.
Next up was the stylist. Each client got to pick their own, and it was an easy choice. Jun preferred female stylists because, in his opinion, male stylists tried to push him into looks that didn’t suit his style. Women were more easily bullied into giving him his way.
So of course I picked out a pretty dominant, stubborn male stylist who’d just recently stopped working with another client of ours because of irreconcilable differences.
The differences being that he didn’t like anyone questioning his choices in design.
Why was I intentionally causing Jun problems?
Maybe a part of me was still hurting from his cruel, cold words.
Maybe a part of me wanted to hurt him back.
