Photo by Molnár Bálint on Unsplash
It’s six-thirty. Time to get up if I want to take a walk before I lose interest.
I stretch my nightgown over my head and hang it on the hook on the wall inside the closet. I pull on leopard leggings and a black T-shirt, and drag on a pair of thick socks.
My dog, Tipper, is snoring on the other side of the bed. He won’t wake up until after I get back, then he’ll lie in bed on his side with his feet straight out and his eyes barely open while I turn on Spotify and make breakfast.
But right now, I’m going for a walk. I lace up my shoes, grab the key to my Russian Hill apartment and open the door as quietly as I can.
The red carpet starts just outside my place which is at the end of the hall and travels all the way down the three flights of stairs to the wooden floor lobby.
Nine silver mailboxes make a square on the wall opposite the door, the morning sun through the door’s glass windows striking them and glancing off like blades of lightening. I bend down to the bottom row, punch the code on mailbox #9. The door pops open revealing a single letter inside with a hand-written address. I pluck it out in surprise and turn it over slowly, wondering what it is, slip a nail under the flap and tear it open.
Inside is a single piece of note paper with nothing written on the back. A short letter. I unfold the paper and notice that it is vellum, a high-quality, smooth stationary used for special occasions. Who’s getting married?
Someone with fairly good handwriting has written to me.
Dear Amelia,
You don’t know me, but I believe that I’m your biological sister from your dad’s side. I was born in Vietnam, but, right after the war, an American couple adopted me and raised me in San Diego.
I’ve always known that my father was American and my mother was Vietnamese. My mother died in the war, but my adopted parents told me that my father was an American serviceman who was stationed in Vietnam when the war ended. He never knew my mother was pregnant.
I found you while doing genealogy research on Heritage.com. You showed up on a family tree that was apparently created by your mother twenty years ago.
My adopted parents are still living in Escondido and I’m living in downtown San Diego, teaching biology at San Diego City College. I went to San Diego State to get my bachelor’s and master’s degrees. I’m 29.
I’d like to meet you and hope you’re willing to talk. Please write back to me. My address is on the back of this envelope.
Sincerely,
Mai Pericote
The room darkens all of a sudden and a knife digs into my heart. I fumble the mailbox door closed and twist the combination knob to erase the code.
The numbers on the knob are blurry.
The lines in the room are fuzzy.
Dad didn’t know? He had an affair in Vietnam while Mom was taking care of me and my sister in the Bay Area, waiting for him to come home every day?
I turn toward the door, the sun shining through the panes blinding me.
I stretch out my hand to find the door knob, grab it with my fingers, and turn.
Outside is Hyde Street and the San Francisco morning chill.
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