Chapter 3

I didn't go back for Nicholas's wedding.

But I still wired fifty thousand over.

Not to my mother. Straight into my father's account.

That was every cent of savings I had at the time.

In the transfer note I wrote three words: For Nicholas's wedding.

My father called me, his voice low, like he was keeping it from my mother.

"Sharon, the money came through."

"Okay."

"Your mom, she… that's just how she is. Don't take it to heart."

I said nothing.

"Fifty thousand for your brother's wedding, that's a lot for you to manage. Dad knows things aren't easy out there."

"Dad," I cut in, "I probably won't be calling much from now on."

The line went quiet for a long time.

"Dad understands," he said at last. "Take care of yourself."

That was the last call I had with my father after I went abroad.

For the next few years, I worked myself into the ground.

Silicon Valley moves fast, and I moved faster. Other people stayed at the office until ten at night; I stayed until two in the morning. Other people rested on weekends; I picked up freelance work on weekends.

It wasn't that I didn't get tired. I just didn't dare stop.

Because the moment I stopped, the memories came flooding back.

My mother said I was picked up off the street. What did that even mean?

Did she just say it in passing, or was it true?

I wanted to ask. I didn't dare.

I was afraid it was true.

If it was true, then those twenty-odd years of my life had been a joke.

I'd studied desperately, worked desperately, tried desperately to prove I was useful, all so I could have a place in that family.

But what if I never belonged to that family at all?

Then what was all that effort worth?

I didn't dare think about it.

All I could do was work, and work, and work.

Bury the thoughts under how busy I stayed.

Five years later, I had a solid footing in Silicon Valley.

From intern to engineer, from engineer to senior engineer, from senior engineer to technology director.

Cashing out my options plus my savings came to nearly fifty million.

I moved from a basement to an apartment, then from the apartment to a house of my own.

I bought a car, bought a house, bought everything I'd wanted as a child and never gotten.

But I wasn't happy.

Sometimes I'd wake in the middle of the night and stare at the ceiling, thinking about the schoolbag with the broken strap when I was little, about the smile on my mother's face when she bought Nicholas a Transformer, about those two words, picked up.

Those memories were like a scar grown into my heart, one I could never peel away.

In the summer of 2017, I made a decision.

I was going back home.

Not back to the family. Back to Ashford City.

I wanted to buy a house, a big house. Then move my parents in, and let Nicholas come by often too.

I wanted to show my mother: that "stray girl you picked up," the one you never thought would amount to anything, has made it now.

I wanted her to regret it.

Wanted her to know that the biggest mistake of her life was never taking me seriously.

I'd hidden that thought inside me for years, and finally I had the chance to make it real.

The plane landed in the evening, the Ashford City sky a dull gray.

I didn't tell the family I was coming.

I stayed in a hotel the first night, and the next day I went to look at a few developments.

The prices were all high, but I didn't care. I had plenty of money.

On the third day, I called the family.

"Mom, I'm back in Ashford City."

The line went blank for two seconds, then my mother's voice came on, carrying that tone I knew so well, part delight, part calculation.

"Oh, you, coming back and not saying a word ahead of time! Where are you? I'll send your dad to pick you up!"

"No need, I'll take a cab."

I hung up, packed my things, and took a cab back to the house.

The security guard at the complex gate had been replaced; he didn't know me. I gave the unit number, and he looked me over before waving me through.

The stairwell was the same as ever, dim, cramped, the paint peeling off the walls worse than when I'd left.

I climbed to the fourth floor and stood in front of that battered steel door.

Knocked.

My mother opened it.

Seven years apart, and she'd aged a great deal. Her hair had gone mostly white, the lines on her face carved deep and shallow.

But her eyes were the same, bright, shrewd, with that sizing-up look I'd known since childhood.

"Oh, Sharon's back! Come in, come in!"

Her warmth caught me off guard.

I changed my shoes and stepped into the living room.

My father was on the couch watching TV. When he saw me come in, he stood up, his lips moving.

"You're back."

"Yeah."

Nicholas wasn't there; they said he'd gone out to have dinner with friends.

That night my mother made a whole table of food. Braised pork roast, sweet-and-sour glazed ribs, buttered garlic shrimp, all the good stuff.

"Eat, eat, braised pork is your favorite, Mom made it for you."

I looked at that plate of braised pork and couldn't name what I felt.

Braised pork was my favorite? I'd barely eaten it a handful of times as a child. Every time she made it, my mother served Nicholas first, and only after he'd eaten his fill did whatever was left come to me.

I picked up a piece and put it in my mouth. I couldn't taste a thing.