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A few weeks after starting school, I was at home sitting in my dusty attic filled with cobwebs and dark shadows. Every crack in the ceiling hinted at a story.
I quickly flipped through a photo album of my parents, which was one of the few sentimental items of theirs that I possessed. I studied a photo of them taken in 1979. Born in Lithuania, Mom was blonde with green eyes. Born in Korea, Dad had sharp cheekbones, a square jaw, and a golden tan.
I glanced at the mantle and studied my father’s medals from his service in Vietnam. Dad was a decorated soldier who had survived prisoner-of-war camps. But instead of a military career, he used the GI bill to get a degree in architecture.
I was born in Kuwait but had lived in Berlin, Istanbul, and most recently Kuala Lumpur.
My parents were not religious having rejected their upbringing. Nevertheless, certain beliefs and attitudes were inescapable. Mom was kind, but viewed the world in binary terms. Dad was cold-tempered, but harsh when challenged.
Their childhood stories filled me with anxiety, because I was fiercely independent and preferred the anonymity that I didn’t think was possible in a big family.
I woke early each day to squeeze in a few miles of running. However, in the last few weeks, I began to feel as if someone was watching me. I wasn’t sure, but I swore that I had seen a dark car appear daily at different parts of my route.
In the evening, I often thought I heard rustling in the bushes outside of my window. It felt like someone was watching me, but I never saw anyone. I hoped it was a deer, raccoon, or my overactive imagination.