Somewhere, far away in China, I have a birth mom.  Unless she died.  Another dad, too.  Maybe.  My mom says the orphanage has a record of my birth mother but not my birth dad.  When I’m in high school and Mom has saved up enough money, we’re going to go to China.  It’s so far away that when it’s day here, it’s night there.

I don’t know if I want to go.

I don’t even speak Chinese.

What if my birth mom wants to talk to me and I can’t say anything?  Not that my birth mother would want to talk to me.  She gave me away.

“She was so young, India,” says Mom, who is of course glad about it, otherwise she wouldn’t have me.

It’s all so confusing.  I don’t tell anybody, but I’m very mad at my birth mother.  If she doesn’t want me, I don’t want her.  Sometimes I hide my face under my pillow and scream, “I don’t want to be Chinese anymore!”

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