Is my birthday really on January 24th? Do you remember?

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Did you have a name picked out for me before I was born?

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Are you religious? Do you worship any gods or goddesses that I might have learned about in school? Did you invoke the blessings of these deities before I was born, praying for a son? Did you curse your deities when you were given a daughter instead?

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When I was born female, what was your general reaction?

a. Disappointment

b. Excitement

c. Regret

d. Joy

e. Fear

f. None of the above

g. All of the above

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Did you sing any lullabies to me? If I managed to unearth some primal memory from the first days of my existence, would I hear your voices?

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Where did my love for music come from? Were one of you—or both of you—musicians at one point in your lives, or was this something that I learned to love on my own? If you had known me when I was a violinist, would that have made you proud, or would you have rather seen your daughter studying to become a doctor or an engineer?

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Would it make you proud to know now that I’m chasing down a literary career?

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Is there anything I could have done to make you proud to have a daughter?

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My adoptive mother was told that I was found nestled among the oranges at a marketplace, where I would be easily found and taken to an orphanage. Is that true? If so, which one of you whisked me away from the family I had been born into? Was it my mother who had the willpower to untangle me from her arms? Or was it my father, as I imagine it was? Who was the one sneaking through the night, leaping from shadow to shadow? Was there a fear of being caught by police or human traffickers or someone else with less-than-friendly intentions? How did you rest after leaving me to the mercy of strangers?

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Are either of you alive? What happened to your family at the outbreak of the pandemic? What were you doing during the Hong Kong protests? Is the pollution really so bad that you have to rely on supplies of bottled water? Are the skies so blotted out from the smog that your lungs have never known fresh air, that your eyes haven’t seen a clear sky in weeks?

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Do you ever wish you could meet me? After telling people that I am adopted, one of the first questions they ask me is if I would ever want to meet you. I want to know your answer before I tell you mine.

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True or False.

(Answer honestly, or I’ll have to assume that everything else is a lie.)

1. Your family knows about me. Knows that you once had a daughter.

2. You thought about what was best for all of us before letting me go.

3. You always hoped that I would live past infancy and be taken in by a loving family.

4. I have siblings that you chose to keep and raise.

5. I am your greatest regret.

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How many nights do you spend lying awake in your beds, wondering where I am? Do you wonder at all? Or am I just a tiny piece of memory in your brains, fading into nothing with each passing year?

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Can you even understand English?

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If there was one thing you could say to help me understand your decision, what would it be? If there was one thing you could say to bring peace to yourselves, what would it be? Or did your peace come from knowing that once I was gone, you could try again for a son?