Through the smell of carnival foods—cheeseburgers, nachos, funnel cake, hot chocolate—and the bodies, jostling, walking, and lingering, hands outstretched for selfies, she walked on the wooden boards of the pier, carrying her mother’s ashes and a plastic grocery bag with a single Honeycrisp apple and a bottle of soju like an old Korean man—all sadness and yearning, dark humor fermented inside.

At the very end, she sat on a bench with her mother beside her. Maybe one day she would spread her ashes here. It was probably illegal, but who cared? For now, she inhaled the salt air, stared into the most distant water, with the moon waxing ripe and bright, and bit into the apple.

She picked up her phone, and within one ring, a woman answered, voice gravelly and worn: “?????”

Tears streamed down Margot’s face as she wondered: How much weight can I bear? She was not her mother. She was weak, spoiled, American. The whistle of a bomb dropping, an explosion blasted in her head. She clung to that rope—now inside of her, too—the braid they had made was the apple that she squeezed in her hand.

“????” the woman repeated.

Margot could hear the woman’s breath on the other end, its warmth like the sun on her face, a bed full of seeds.

“I’m Mina’s daughter. ??. ?,” Margot said, but the shaking of her voice implored, Please, please understand.

Acknowledgments

MY EDITOR, NATALIE HALLAK, SUPPORTED THIS NOVEL with her keen intellect, imagination, and warmth. She has been an exceptional partner and it has been a dream to work with Park Row Books. My agent, Amy Elizabeth Bishop, is not only incisive but hilarious and kind in every way. She has been a tremendous advocate, and by believing in my words, she changed my life.

Teachers and mentors David Wong Louie, who passed away in 2018, Russell Leong, King-Kok Cheung, Maya Sonenberg, Colleen J. McElroy, Shawn Wong, Alexander Chee, and Randa Jarrar created pathways for my work through their generosity and dedication to storytelling and craft. The UCLA Asian American Studies Center provided me with a sense of place and history; Amerasia Journal published the first short story I wrote.

Editors and literary journals sustained me by sharing my words: Los Angeles Review of Books, Guernica, Asian American Writers’ Workshop’s The Margins, Apogee Journal, The Rumpus, Electric Literature and The Offing.

Family and friends nourished me through the years of writing this book: in particular, Eva Larrauri de Leon, Talia Shalev, the Lee and Kim families, the Goodman and Robin families, Corinne Manning, Ever Jones, Keiko and Naomi Namekata, Gabrielle Bellot, Anca Szilágyi, and Paula Shields. My writing group shared wisdom and magic: Ingrid Rojas Contreras, Yalitza Ferreras, Meron Hadero, Amber Butts, Angie Chau, Tanya Rey, and Melissa Valentine.

I am indebted to my mother as a model for how infinitely complex and wondrous a single life can be. She taught me to define success through how I feel about myself and the world. I would have been lost without her and her courage, her story telling, and the exceptional meals that she makes.

My husband, Paul, stood by me through every draft and lived with me and my characters, which required endless faith, resilience, and a sense of humor, for years under one roof. Each time I experienced a setback, he reminded me of where I was and how far I’d gone. This novel wouldn’t have been without him (and our dogs).

Thank you all for making this possible.