Her voice was calm, but the meaning behind it cracked like glass under pressure.
She reached down, opened the smaller suitcase, and pulled out a thick envelope.
"I put everything you'll need in here," she said. "Photos, names, dates, little notes about each family member. You need to know who you're walking into."
I took it from her, fingers brushing hers. It felt heavier than it looked. Not just paper. Memories. Connections. Unknown roots.
Then she handed me a folded piece of paper. "This is the address."
I nodded once and shoved it into my purse that was kept near the suitcase, without looking at it. Thank God the flight was at night. At least I still had half a day left with them.
Half a day to memorize my father's face. His laugh. His voice. Half a day to breathe in the only life I'd ever known…before stepping into one I never asked for.
The rest of the day passed like sand slipping through my fingers.
No matter how tight I tried to hold on, it kept falling away.
My father was too weak to say much.
But I stayed by his side held his hand, fed him soup, smiled even when my throat was aching from holding in tears.
He kept asking me about my bike rides, about the tulips I gave out every morning like I was some fairy in a dream he didn't want to leave.
I let him talk. I didn't correct anything.
I just nodded and said, "They're blooming beautifully this year."
And maybe he believed it. Or maybe he just wanted to.
My mom didn't leave the kitchen all day. She cooked every one of my favorites from that ridiculously buttery pasta I loved as a kid, to that fruit tart she only ever made on my birthdays.
It was like she wanted to make the hours taste sweeter, even if they were laced with goodbye.
We didn't talk much more about the trip. We didn't need to. The silence said enough.
When evening came, she placed a scarf over my shoulders at the door soft and familiar the same one she used to tie around me in the winters when I'd go out and ride my bike until it got dark.
"Keep it," she said. "It still smells like home."
I nodded. I couldn't speak just yet.
My father was lying on the sofa. Too tired to stand. He lifted his hand slowly and motioned for me to come closer.
I bent down and kissed his forehead.
"You'll be alright," I whispered.
Maybe it was more for me than for him.
He gave a small smile, too weak to reply. But his eyes said everything.
I stood up, turned toward the door And my mother gently pressed a folded piece of paper into my hand one last time.
"Just in case you lose the first one," she said, her voice wobbling. I gave her a tight hug, one I didn't want to let go of.
"Be strong," she whispered against my hair. "You were born for more than this life, Yuxi."
She hadn't called me that in years. And just like that, I was walking away. One step at a time, my whole world behind me.
And ahead a place I'd never been, a name I wasn't used to hearing, and people who had no idea I existed.
I hated airports.
Too loud. Too crowded. Too much everyone.
The seats were sticky. The lighting was too blue. And the woman behind me had been chewing gum like it was a personal vendetta against my peace.
I sat by the window, legs crossed neatly, my bag on my lap not on the floor, obviously. God knows what had touched that carpet. It smelled like sadness and old coffee.
My scarf was still around my shoulders.
It carried the scent of my mother's laundry powder soft vanilla and something faintly floral. Every time I inhaled, my chest ached.
The flight to Shanghai was long. First class helped, but even then… the air felt different.
Thin. Like it knew I wasn't just going somewhere.
I was going back to something I'd never known. The attendant offered me champagne. I took sparkling water.
"Still or sparkling, mademoiselle?"
"Sparkling," I said, voice steady.
If I was about to walk into some dramatic Chinese family saga where I was the mystery daughter no one knew existed, the least I could do was stay hydrated.
I adjusted my cashmere coat and made sure the wrinkle on my trousers wasn't forming again.
It was a nervous habit smoothing things, fixing things, organizing what I could when everything else was falling apart.
I didn't cry. Not here. Not in public. People like me didn't unravel on airplanes.
I glanced out the window. The clouds looked like untouched snow. Soft, far away, unreachable.
Somewhere beneath them was Shanghai. A city I'd only seen in movies. A family I'd never met. And, hopefully, a liver… for the only father I'd ever known.
The pilot's voice echoed through the cabin, calm and practiced.
"Estimated time of arrival: 11:20 a.m. Local weather in Shanghai is warm and clear."
Warm and clear.
Great. That meant dust. And I'd forgotten my travel-sized facial mist.
I shut my eyes for a second.
One long breath.
I could do this. I had to.
Because for once in my life, something actually depended on me.
Not my grades. Not my manners.
Me.
The moment I stepped off the plane, the air hit me.
Warm. Humid. And most importantly unfiltered.
I wrinkled my nose the slightest bit, clutching my purse tighter. The automatic doors at the arrivals terminal opened with a mechanical sigh, and the smell of fried oil, car fumes, and something vaguely herbal wafted in like an unexpected slap to the face.
Bienvenue en Shanghai, I thought dryly.
The airport was a maze of noise. Voices everywhere. Loudspeaker announcements I couldn't understand.
Children running around with juice boxes. A man in a stained polo shirt arguing with his driver. And the humidity? It did things to my hair I considered illegal.
I adjusted my sunglasses even though we were indoors. If I looked calm, maybe I'd feel calm.