Sophia's Daughter

It happened a long time ago—so long that the memory had faded. But sometimes, a single sight can pierce through the haze, bringing the past back as vividly as if it happened just days ago.

There was a knock at the door. I looked through the peephole. It was Sophia’s daughter, Ginny.

“What brings you here?”

“Can I come in, ma’am?”

“Won’t your mother be looking for you?”

“She left this morning with a big suitcase.”

“Where would she go, leaving you behind? What about your father?”

“He went out with my aunt yesterday and hasn’t come back. I think she came to take me away.”

It was a day when snow had piled up thickly everywhere. A tall, strikingly featured Korean woman was peering, peering inside the building I live anxiously. Her distressed, restless eyes met mine—filled with a desperate plea for help. She reminded me of Lara from Doctor Zhivago, wandering the snow-covered Siberian wilderness.

“My husband was assigned to Korea for work, and that’s where we got married. We moved to Queens, New York. He worked at a newspaper, but suddenly fell ill, so four years ago, we had no choice but to move to Ohio, where his family lived. I had to leave my daughter with my sister-in-law while I worked. Even though I protested, my sister-in-law and her husband insisted on adopting my child. I was terrified they would take her away. Then, I saw an online ad for an apartment rental, and in the middle of the night, I fled with my husband and daughter.”

She had told me this story when she first moved in.

“Your aunt cared for you, didn’t she?”

“No. She scolded me and hit me. Do you know how hard it was to get here? I like you,”

The little girl’s large gray eyes shimmered with tears as she let out a sigh.

“Oh, you poor thing.”

Overcome with emotion, I pulled her into my arms. She was only five years old, but with her golden hair and round gray eyes—just like her white father—she spoke and gestured like an adult, chattering endlessly.

Then, there was another knock at the door. I looked through the peephole and saw her mother, Sophia, standing outside with an uneasy expression.

“Have you seen Ginny?”

“She’s here.”

“What are you doing here? Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you? You can’t just slip out without saying a word.”

The little girl sat cross-legged, resting her chin on her hand, her face thoughtful as if nothing had happened and then he looked back and forth between us.

“Did you go out? She said her aunt came.”

“My sister-in-law? She doesn’t even know where we live. How could she have come? I’ve been home all day.”

I was bewildered, unsure who to believe, and looked back and forth between mother and daughter.

Then, as if nothing had happened, they stepped out and left. Two months later, they moved away without a word.

And now, on days when the snow falls thickly, I find myself remembering that child’s tear-filled gray eyes—eyes that had grown up amidst the uncertainties of the adult world.