Souvenir - Chapter 2.2

It also mentioned an increase in late-night truck activity, sparking local rumors.
A company spokesperson had dismissed it as “routine logistics expansion due to increased demand for raw materials and distribution.”

My eyes landed on the Lotus Lab logo—a simple design featuring lotus leaves.

I had seen it before.

Somewhere deep in my memory, buried in the past.

Then it hit me—a small bottle sitting on my mother’s vanity.

It had the same design.

—

After my father’s death, the woman he had married withdrew all the money from one of his bank accounts and vanished without a trace.

I have no idea where she is now, nor do I ever wish to know.

When I feel lonely, I think of my mother’s back.

She, too, was alone until the very end.

I carry her solitude within me.

She was quiet and reserved, never asserting herself, always standing by my father’s side despite their frequent fights.

My father was violent.
I know that.
I had witnessed it firsthand.

Though he tried to keep his abuse out of my sight, children notice everything, even when adults think they don’t.

There were moments when I felt uneasy realizing how much I resembled my mother.
She must have felt the same—she often left my upbringing entirely to Maria.

I never hated my mother.
But sometimes, when she looked at me, I could see the resignation in her eyes.

It was painful.

Maybe it was because I looked too much like her.

She carried deep insecurities about being Japanese.
If she hadn’t, maybe she would have been a little kinder to me.

—

At fifteen, she won a modeling audition in Japan and entered the entertainment industry.
She had a successful career as a singer, producing hit songs and becoming an idol.

Everyone believed she had a bright future ahead of her as an actress.

But the entertainment world wasn’t kind.
The lack of privacy, the baseless gossip, the relentless harassment from the media, and even stalkers—she reached her breaking point.

One day, she abruptly announced her retirement and left for America.

She found refuge with a relative who owned a Japanese restaurant in New York and worked there while occasionally taking small roles in an Asian American theater group.

That was where she met my father, one of the theater’s financial backers.

I had always assumed my mother was a powerless, fragile woman.
But hearing her past, I realized she must have been both bold and determined.

So why did she change after meeting my father?

Why did she become so submissive?

That question still lingers in my mind.

But I will never find the answer.

—

My mother’s image remains an unsolved mystery.

I inherited her dark hair, brown eyes, and youthful features, making me unmistakably Asian in appearance.

Yet, my Japanese language skills are limited to simple conversation.

Japanese tourists and expatriates are often surprised when I don’t understand them.

To them, a foreigner looks like a White American, a Black person, or an Indian—never someone like me.

I first experienced this unease when I traveled to Japan for work with Sarah, a second-generation Japanese American paralegal.

Despite my heritage, Japan never felt like home.

Tokyo’s chaotic energy reminded me of New York, yet the culture was vastly different.

The island nation felt eerie—its people masked their emotions, never revealing their true thoughts.

But I didn’t hate it.

I couldn’t.

Because I understood it.

Because it was the same loneliness that lived inside me.

Even so, I am American.