Chapter Text
Early spring of 2000 arrived softly in San Francisco. The city’s Chinatown glowed under a warm, honey-colored afternoon sun. Light spilled across narrow streets, catching on piles of vegetables and fruit arranged by street vendors.
It was Boming’s birthday—and Awen’s third year in the United States. She pushed her stroller through the bustling crowd, groceries stacked neatly beneath, gathering ingredients for a homemade birthday dinner.
At one moment, her sharp nose caught the unmistakable scent of freshly roasted duck. She followed the aroma and stopped in front of a roast meat shop she often visited. Plump, glossy ducks hung in the window, their skin glistening under the lights, steam still rising as if they had just come out of the oven.
Without hesitation, she stepped inside.
The owner, a middle-aged woman with short permed hair and a stained apron, looked up and laughed when she saw Awen.
“You are so quick! The duck just came out of the oven!”
Awen laughed too. “Yes, I could smell it from miles away. So good. Can I have half of one duck to go?”
“Of course, of course. Freshest of the day.” She lifted a duck from the hook and chopped it with swift, practiced movements, her cleaver flashing. “Your nose is better than mine. You always come at the perfect time.”
She glanced at the baby in the stroller.
“Wow, the baby grew so fast! And you look much more at home here than a couple of years ago.”
“Yeah, I really am,” Awen said with a smile. “Building a family and making friends like you makes it feel like home. I heard your daughter, Lee, got into Stanford?”
“Yeah, she did.” The owner’s face lit up with pride.
“Congratulations. Maybe one day I’ll be a Stanford mom too. I’ll ask my boy to bother yours for advice when he can talk.”
“I’m sure this little boy can do it too! Won’t you?” the owner said, wrapping the roast meats carefully. She leaned down and waved at the baby before placing the bag into the stroller’s basket.
Boming had rented a small apartment near his workplace in the South Bay last year to avoid traffic during the week. Awen and the baby stayed in San Francisco around Chinatown, where she felt comfortable in a community she could relate to. Boming seemed to prefer being alone during weekdays.
She felt something wasn’t right, but she couldn’t point to anything specific.
After collecting all the groceries, she drove down to his apartment in the South Bay to prepare a surprise birthday dinner.
When she turned the key, music leaked through the door. Is he home early today?
The living room was empty. The kitchen was empty. The afternoon sunlight shone through the windows, brushing everything into warm yellow shadows. The music came from the bedroom, and there was giggling.
Her hand froze on the doorknob of the bedroom, but she pushed it open anyway, slowly and quietly.
She couldn’t believe what she saw through the tiny crack of the door she had just opened. Her happy, fulfilling family collapsed in an instant. She closed the bedroom door silently, grabbed her baby, and ran.
She drove without knowing where she was going. Eventually, she stopped at a motel. Her English was broken, but she managed to rent a room. Alone in the quiet, dark space, she held her baby tightly and let the tears fall.
Boming was the reason she had crossed the Pacific. They had known each other since childhood in a small southern town in China. He was a couple of years older, always good at school, full of ideas Awen had never heard before. She had always believed he would leave the small town and do something great.
When he went to the United States for college, she almost ended the relationship, never imagining that “somewhere big” would be across the Pacific. But they made it work. They married after he earned permanent residency. She came to America, and together they had a baby. They started a new life here. At the time, everything felt overwhelming, but somehow she managed.
She believed that as long as they loved each other, they could build something better than back home.
But maybe that was only what she believed.
Loneliness, suppressed for years, surged out of her chest. She breathed slowly, trying to steady herself, but nothing could fill the hollow inside.
The next morning, she drove back to San Francisco, feeling powerless. Even holding the steering wheel took all her energy. She had barely traveled by car back in her small town. When Boming first taught her to drive, it had felt like a flurry of steps—hands, feet, pedals, mirrors—all at once.
“Take a deep breath, step by step,” he had said, chuckling from the passenger seat.
At first, merging onto the highway had felt impossible. But now, driving was as natural as breathing, an essential skill she had mastered. Boming had helped her settle into life in Chinatown, where Awen could shop, get her hair cut, and find work that required little English. It made adjusting to America easier.
Back at their apartment in San Francisco, she checked on the baby and put him to sleep. She stored the groceries she had bought, even some that had already gone bad, pretending they were still fresh.
As she worked, memories surfaced—her first days in the United States, when everything was new and overwhelming. Back then, their relationship had been full of hope and love. Boming had guided her through the unknown, helping her build a life in a strange country. But even in those early days, subtle differences were already forming between them. He had been here longer, more confident in this new world, while she struggled to adapt. She had thought that if she tried hard enough—learning, working, adjusting—she could bring them closer. But some distance could not be bridged by effort alone.
Boming returned on the weekend, as usual.
“Why didn’t you call me on my birthday?” he asked. He might have sensed something unusual in the silence since he got back and wanted to start a conversation.
“Your birthday? Oh, I might have forgotten. Probably Victor was being needy, so I was focused on him.” She smiled at the baby, squeezing his nose. “Aren’t you a bossy baby, demanding all the attention?”
Awen decided not to bring up what she had discovered. She started working extra shifts at the grocery store. The owner allowed Victor to stay with her. She saved enough to rent a small basement unit closer to work. She offered to cook for the landlord to reduce the rent. On weekdays, she lived there; on weekends, she returned to the apartment with Boming. She felt freer, happier when away from him.
One weekday night, after singing Victor to sleep, Awen lay back on the small bed and stared at the ceiling. For the first time in months, everything felt clear.
The next morning, she moved her last belongings to the basement, packing away the remnants of the life she had tried to salvage. Then, with a sense of finality, she blocked Boming on her phone.
A few days after Awen had cut off her life from Boming, a sharp knock on the door shattered the stillness of the early morning.
The landlord stood in the hallway, his face tense, with a man in uniform beside him.
“Police,” the officer said, his voice slow and formal.
Awen’s hands shook as she clutched her baby. Her English was still rough; she didn’t understand everything. “What… what happened?” she stammered.
“You are suspected of taking your child without legal permission,” the officer said, firm but not cruel.
Awen froze. Taking my child? Without permission? She had only wanted to hold him close, to protect him from someone who had betrayed her. Tears welled in her eyes. “No… I just—he is my son. I ran… from my husband.”
The officer scribbled notes and spoke words she barely understood: custody, complaint filed, rights. Her stomach twisted. The world felt huge, cold, and incomprehensible.
An hour later, Boming arrived. He stood tall and calm, the embodiment of the life she had once believed they shared.
“I can’t believe you called the police on me!” Awen shouted, her voice cracking. “I just wanted to be with our son!”
“You disappeared with him,” Boming said sharply. “How was I supposed to find you?”
She stared at him. He didn’t see her heartbreak, his betrayal, or the lonely nights she had endured. In his eyes, she was the problem.
She took a slow, deep breath. Words formed steadily, like a promise to herself. “We are getting a divorce. I want custody of the baby.”
Boming laughed, almost amused. “Don’t be childish. This isn’t a game. It will only make things harder for you.”
“And what?” Awen’s voice rose. “I should stay with someone who doesn’t love me? Pretend nothing happened?”
“Where will you even go?” he asked coldly. “Back to China? You won’t. And I won’t let you take him. You don’t understand the law—you already broke it by leaving without permission.”
The divorce dragged on for months. With the help of her lawyer, she managed to keep her green card, but Boming kept primary custody; he had a stable job at a tech company. Awen had little legal leverage and a police record. She could see her son only twice a month.
Awen moved to San Jose and rented a small room in an apartment. She worked at a Cantonese restaurant at night and on weekends, and at a Chinese supermarket during the weekdays, barely covering rent and child support. She told herself it was temporary. One day, she would prove she could care for her son, fully and independently.
Her roommate, Lin, was an international student from Shanghai. Lin was her parents’ only daughter, fully supported in her studies. Though they were the same generation, their lives felt decades apart. Lin worried about quizzes, internships, and dating. Awen worried about rent, custody lawyers, and survival.
She knew she could not wait tables forever, but she had no idea what else she could do. College felt impossible. She had never enjoyed school. Still, she needed a skill—something she could build a future with.
One evening, Lin was struggling with her hair for an important date. “Can you help me?” she asked.
Awen took the curling iron and worked instinctively. Her hands moved easily, a memory of braiding her younger sister’s hair in China filling her mind. When she finished, Lin stared at the mirror.
“How are you so good at this?” she asked. “You should be a hairdresser. Imagine moving to LA, doing celebrities’ hair!”
Awen laughed. She knew Lin exaggerated, but something warm settled in her chest—a small spark of possibility. Maybe this could be something.
Life in the U.S. was never easy. Her mother called and sent letters, requesting additional financial support. Her father, once a laborer, was older now and could not earn as much. Her younger sister was turning eighteen and going to college. Her older brother, married with children, needed assistance indirectly. And because Awen lived in the U.S.—the most powerful country on earth in her mother’s eyes—she was expected to provide.
Awen took a deep breath, needing a mental break before asking the restaurant owner for a raise. She stepped out the back door, walking toward the dumpster, fumbling with her cigarette and lighter. She tried several times, but it wouldn’t light—frustration built in her chest.
Suddenly, a man stepped out from the shadows near the dumpster. He was tall and lean, his posture relaxed, as if he belonged to neither the restaurant nor the alley. At first glance, Awen thought he was Chinese—or at least Asian. But in the afternoon light, his features didn’t quite settle into anything familiar.
The sunlight caught his hair, revealing a faint brown tint she hadn’t noticed before. His eyes were lighter than she expected, reflecting the pale California sky. He looked like someone shaped by two places at once, never fully claimed by either.
He held a cigarette loosely between his fingers. “Need a light?” he asked in English, his voice casual.
“Yes… can I borrow your fire?” Awen asked, urgency cracking her voice.
“You mean the lighter?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small metal lighter, shaking it toward her.
She leaned forward with the cigarette in her mouth, one hand shielding the flame from the wind. He flicked the lighter, and the flame caught immediately. She inhaled deeply, relief flooding her chest, and gave him a thumbs-up. “Thank you.”
Her hand brushed against the letter she had received that morning—her mother again asking for more support, her brother’s health, family expenses, the unspoken expectation that Awen, in America, could provide. She had heard it on the phone, but seeing it on paper made it heavier.
She glanced at the man. “Can I use that lighter again?”
Without a word, he handed it over. Awen held the letter above the flame, watching it curl and blacken, the smoke rising into the cool air. For a moment, the weight lifted slightly from her chest.
She returned the lighter. He gave a brief nod and stepped back into the shadows, disappearing as quietly as he had arrived.
For the first time in weeks, Awen felt a small spark of hope—that someone, even a stranger, could recognize the struggle she carried, without judgment, without expectation.
Cosmetology school would cost Awen at least two weeks of her paycheck, and she might need to cut her working hours to attend classes. The thought made her chest tighten. Rent, diapers, groceries—every dollar already felt spoken for.
She compared several local programs during her lunch breaks, circling notes in a small notebook she kept folded in her apron pocket. Some schools looked too expensive, others too far. With Lin’s help, she finally chose a program at a nearby community college. It wasn’t perfect, but it was affordable, and the campus was only a bus ride away.
Lin took her to the college office one afternoon and helped her fill out the financial aid forms. They sat at a slow, humming computer in the student services building, printing out pages that Awen carefully signed in neat English letters. Lin folded the papers into an envelope for her to mail.
“It will help,” Lin said. “You don’t have to quit your job.”
Awen nodded, though she knew she would still need to cut hours. But for the first time, the sacrifice felt like an investment, not a loss.