Part 1Echoes of an Empty Home

My parents were famous. I only ever saw them on television.

They were always on the front lines of war zones, claiming the environment was too dangerous, so they left me in the countryside with my grandmother.

But later, they adopted their deceased colleague’s daughter.

They brought her to live with them, pouring all the love and compensation they owed me onto her.

She became their precious darling, never having to look at her parents through a cold screen.

Years later, when they finally remembered I existed, I had already survived a severe fever that burned away any remaining affection I had for them.

* * *

I got sick. It wasn’t critical, but it lasted a long time.

It started with a bet I made with my parents’ adopted daughter, Harper, to see who could reach the top of the mountain trail first.

The winner could ask our parents to attend their parent-teacher conference.

When I pushed myself to the limit, braving the cold morning wind and dew to reach the summit, I saw my parents and Harper—playing the perfect family of three—smiling and pitching a tent, getting ready to photograph the sunrise.

Seeing me arrive, Harper smiled brightly and spoke up.

She said, "I only said we’d race to see who gets here first. I didn't say how we had to get here."

She said, "Chloe, haven't you figured it out yet? On the same path, to reach the destination, you only have your own two feet. But I have Mom and Dad to carry me. You lost from the very beginning."

My parents, holding their cameras behind her, heard our conversation and realized what was going on.

They looked a bit awkward and were about to invite me to watch the sunrise with them.

But I had already turned around and walked away without a second glance.

"Let her go!" I heard my mother’s angry voice from behind. "Why can't she be sensible like Harper? If she knew how to be close to her parents like Harper does, instead of always wearing that cold, miserable face, why would we ignore her?"

Hearing those words, I couldn't help but find it ridiculous. My parents always said I didn't know how to soften my stance, that I didn't know how to get close to them or please them.

But during the fifteen years they were absent from my life, I couldn't even see them. How was I supposed to learn how to be close to them?

How was I supposed to know how to do something no one had ever taught me?

After returning home, I fell ill.

It should have just been a slight chill from the morning dew, but I developed a high fever. My entire body felt heavy, completely drained of energy.

Before completely passing out, I managed to dial 911 for an ambulance.

Then, I plunged into darkness. During that time in a coma, I saw my childhood again.

When I was very young, I always saw my parents on TV. And only on TV.

They were nationally renowned journalists. College sweethearts who shared the same passions and ideals.

After graduation, they chased their shared dream, rushing to the front lines of major news events.

Later, they even volunteered to go overseas to war zones, eating and living with refugees devastated by conflict.

Before they left, they took one last photo.

In the picture, I was still a baby swaddled in blankets, held by a smiling, gentle man and woman. A family of three, happily leaning against each other.

At that time, I didn't know that would be the last time I would be hugged by my parents for the rest of my life.

That was the one thing that made me beat my chest in frustration countless times during my childhood.

I hated myself for not developing memories earlier—so I could at least remember what it felt like to be in my parents' arms.

That would have definitely been an experience worth remembering for a lifetime.

Unfortunately, there are no "what ifs."

Communication technology wasn't very advanced back then. I was dumped with my grandmother, who lived alone in a rural town in the Midwest.

The old woman didn't really know how to use the clunky cell phone my parents left her. At the beginning of every month, she would lean on her cane and walk miles to the post office in town to see if there were any letters for us.

When I got a little older, she took me with her.

Every time before we left the house, I would put on my nice Sunday dress that I usually saved for special occasions, and I would wear two flower clips in the shiny black braids Grandma tied for me.

I thought my parents could see me through the letters, so I had to dress up beautifully for them.

But I never received a single letter. It wasn't until third grade, when my English teacher assigned us to write a letter to our mothers, that I finally realized letters were only sent one way.

My parents wouldn't magically appear in the post office to hear me tell them how much I missed them.

Thankfully, even without letters, we had the television.

My parents had been abroad for years, missing Thanksgiving and Christmas for seven or eight years straight.

Occasionally, they would ask someone to send Grandma some new appliances.

When that 45-inch color TV was set up in our living room, it drew many neighbors to come and watch.

Grandma was hospitable, inviting everyone in to watch TV together.

Once the antenna was set up and the TV was turned on, it happened to be the evening news. The anchor in a suit said a few words, the screen cut, and a man and a woman in plain clothes holding microphones appeared on the screen.

In that instant, my eyes lit up.

The people on the news were my parents. Standing in front of the smoke of war, they concisely reported on the local situation and urged society to extend a helping hand to the innocent refugees suffering from the disaster.

Looking at their faces, which were much more weathered than in the photograph, I walked toward the TV in a daze.

"Daddy, Mommy..." I looked up, calling out to them loudly, but received no response.