Dear Birth Parents,

If someone were to ever look underneath my bed, they would find a box. It’s pushed all the way in the back left hand corner, sitting underneath a bag of books I forgot to drop at GoodWill, and behind a clear storage container filled with supplies left from my middle-school scrapbooking phase.

It’s sleek and dark with a glossy finish and a thin layer of dust that’s collecting on the top. There’s a broken brass hinge that makes it difficult to close but, it’s only ever opened once a year, so that isn't usually an issue. Inside the box there is a manilla envelope and inside that envelope there are letters. Eighteen to be exact. Eighteen letters for eighteen missed birthdays. For eighteen years that have gone by.

I hate my birthday. It’s a hard thing to hate considering it falls on the day before Christmas, and who can sulk during the holiday season? The whole month of December synonymously falls in relation to everything bright and jolly, the festivities of the season mirroring within the disposition of even the greatest of grinch. Each year I feel like I take another step farther back as the day starts to slowly lose its meaning and I worry that one day I will forget the day altogether.

In 2001, on December 24 at exactly 11:42PM, a mother relinquished custody of her new-born daughter in a small hospital in Kangwon-do, South Korea. She held her child for a grand total of once, provided it with a first name to seal on record, confirmed she was of sound mind and scribbled her signature on the dotted line. I wouldn’t give it mother-daughter bonding experience of the year but hey, beggars can't be choosers.

An umbilical cord was both figuratively and literally the sole maintainer of our relationship and once that was cut, the only remaining tie I had to my heritage was severed. At 11:58PM, Social Services swept in and I became property of the Republic of South Korea and soon after, The United States of America. Soo Bin Han was erased from the system and in her place came Layla Lee Silverstein, naturalized American citizen. You should have seen when I found out I could never be President and my dreams of getting my face on Mount Rushmore were ultimately shattered. Tough day in the Silverstein household.

I never liked Biology. I always thought it to be the least interesting of the sciences, merely a box to check that brought me one step closer to a slip of paper and a shake of a hand at the end of four years. The classroom was positioned in the back end of the school building and always held a musty stench as you walked in. Today that smell was particularly stale.

Every fourth Monday of class, Ms. Devinney pulled out the same blue accordion folder and a stack of papers she arranged neatly in the top most slot. The fourth Monday meant project day

and we always looked forward to project day as it meant there was no new testing material and a fresh unit was upon us.

It was the classic take and pass, the series of papers making their way around the room. As they approached me, I could see the large italic print scaling the middle of the page and the bland text that read accordingly:

Genetics is the branch of biology that deals with heredity and the variation of organisms. It defines the transmission of physical and psychological traits passed from generation to generation. Trace a series of dominant and recessive traits down your family tree and determine which of your traits came from what side of your family.

Sounds simple enough. Straightforward instructions for an undemanding and routine project. It called for minimal effort and brain space and was most likely a filler grade to buffer the incoming midterm marks that were to soon be entered. It should be an easy A.

Except, I didn’t know I was Asian until my 11th birthday. The harsh slant of my dark almond-shaped eyes looked identical to my father’s clear blue ones and the tones of blond from my mother’s hair must have been bright enough to distract from my own black locks. Whether I blame it on childlike innocence or sheer neglect, I never stole a second glance when I passed my reflection in the mirror.

It wasn’t Ms. Devinney’s fault. How could she have known? It was an innocent mistake and all it would have taken was a quick chat after class for her to amend the instructions and give a few sorrowful glances for me to be on my way. I could have done that. But, I didn’t.

I walked out of that class with a type of shame I didn’t know I could feel. Despite the insurmountable disappointment that radiated a force field around me as I wandered the hallways, I couldn't help feel a twinge of excitement.

Playing pretend wasn’t a foreign concept for me.

I’d like to think that my distaste for dark chocolate is a direct result of my biological mothers’ inability to stomach bitter flavors. I always had an inkling that she was a good baker. Personally, I am a terrible chef, the extent of my abilities reflected in a swiss omelette I made in the microwave. Yet, I feel like she is the cooking type. Always experimenting with bizarre new recipes for my father and I, watching with bated breath as we scarfed down yet another one of her outlandish concoctions. When she was stressed, she would bake loaves on loaves of banana

bread that would keep our freezer filled for weeks, and despite her knowledge of my poor cooking capabilities, she could never say no when I begged to help.

As for my biological father, I always imagined him soft. The type of dad to take you out for ice cream after a bad soccer game. I’ve never played soccer in my life but, maybe I would have in this alternative world. He always smells earthy, with a balmy twinge of cedar that can never be rinsed off, despite the copious loads of laundry he does each week. While mom was more outspoken and rash, he was the golden balance that provided the optimal amount of support and affection that could keep us both in line.

Parental genes did more than just segregate from their appearance in my DNA but separated halfway across the world. I made a decision that night to play god. Like little paper dolls I construed an alternative fantasy world that fulfilled my grand desire to belong. The only sound in the room was the dragging and dropping of stock photo asians, accompanied with the whirl of my internal dialogue reading like y​es yes, dimples are from my mom but the attached earlobes have to be from grandpa. W​ ould Gregor Mendel be proud of my intentions or would he shy away from the fabrication of data he so greatly worked to prove?

A figment of my imagination was thrown onto a 36’’ by 48’’ double plied tri-fold that detailed the intimate and frankly selfish ideas I had of my double life. The following week I strutted in with my board that was manipulated with genealogical lies and presented my findings to the class. Though my friends all knew the truth and entertained my comical demonstration with a hint of pity, my teacher stoically observed my performance, glancing down to jot notes every so often.

I got an A.

It left me with a dirty sense of satisfaction that stunk up a whole room. It was a deceitful grade, one that I did not earn.

After that day, I stopped myself from letting my imagination roam too far. It would only be on that one fateful day in December that I would allow myself the freedom to think about them, guilt-free.

The other 364 days I am harder on myself. I used to feel ashamed that I didn’t know how to use chopsticks. The Asian-fusion buffet across from my house was my definition of Korean culture. I don’t like spicy foods and always have to explain my personal life when employees ask where I am from. It is consuming and it is exhausting, I am exhausted.

I have an inherent and overwhelming need to be wanted. I bear the burden to impress every person whom I meet, every teacher and waiter and cashier at the bodega. My insecurities are a product of the vicious reality that stems from a fear of rejection and the notion that I was never a first choice. It's embedded within every unsent letter and punnett square and half drunk bowl of egg drop soup. It’s everywhere and nowhere, hiding in the connotation and association of every mundane practicality of daily life.

Our lives together could have been great. A house always filled with banana bread and kimchi, smelling like cedar and stained Soju that was spilled the night before.

But this isn’t eighth grade. And you aren’t real.

So until next year-

Your daughter, Layla Silverstein