I was born on the fourth, and so I had to disappear. In my imagination, I see a moonless night and feel the wind snapping at my ears as I’m hurried through the streets. Your arms are the only warmth I feel, though they are trembling. Do I cry? Or do I simply sleep? I’m grateful to have escaped the rivers and wells that sometimes accompany these stories— ferrying me past the gates of death to a place where I might have a future. Did you cry? Or did you simply tuck my blanket tighter and walk away? Does your body still ache from where I was nestled?

In America, we say once upon a time to begin a story. How do they say it in Chinese? I’ve lost so much of my story and only now am I trying to put it together. Let me try again.

Once upon a time, you wanted a baby. A boy, preferably. You stared down the chart of pink and blue dots, aligning lunar ages while you pressed a hand to your belly. Or maybe you smiled every time you craved something salty, happily requesting crackers and seaweed over sweet treats. When other women fawned over your pregnancy glow and lack of morning sickness, you had hope.

Until I swept away blue skies. Is it true that mothers love their babies at first sight? Was I hard to let go of after sharing a body with me? Sometimes I imagine you holding me tighter, knowing that you’d have to let me go. Maybe you whispered a name into my ear, syllables lost in years of translation and memory. Would I recognize that sound if you whispered it to me now?

One more time: I’m just another in a long line. Your fingers are already threadbare, and the children tugging at your hems are skinny and dream-hungry. In their eyes, you see your own dreams fading away. You feel me kick in your belly and make a promise. A mother always wants the best for her children, and sometimes best has to be left up to chance. When I’m born, you see I have your eyes and your father’s smile. But you’ve made a promise and already have so many mouths to feed.

So I’m left with a prayer and a mother’s best intentions. Would you recognize your father’s smile after so many years? Would you recognize your own eyes looking back at you? Are they even yours anymore?

There are questions neither of us can answer now, and a whole world between us. But once upon a time, my story started with you, my mother, and for that, I’ll always say

thank you.