"Hey..." 
He must be Jonathan. His features, his familiar smile matched the indistinct profile I had in my head. It has been 16 years but I can still vastly recognize. I'd never forget his face.

"Hey" I smiled back. I was genuinely glad to be seeing him.
"How are you?" He asked, while arranging the documents that presumably was about to be presented to me. My eyes fixated on them. I wanted to fast forward these small talks, and get to the main reason why I was here, but I knew somehow, he cared. 

"I don't know... I guess... I'm just living." No. In fact, I was second to the happiest girl on earth before the call. 
He smiled, and was about to say something else, but I cut him off, "Jonathan... Please. I need to know. Now. Another minute would kill me." He nodded. 

His brows creased, while he presented a profile of a lady, immediately displaying his professionalism. "Her name is Tyra Lee. We found her dead in her apartment 3 months ago." He paused, still flipping the pages. "While investigating her death, we found these." He gently pushed over a pile of documents containing pictures. He gestured me to look through them.

To be my utmost surprise, they were pictures of me when I was a kid. I flipped through and more pictures of me unfolded with short captions or sometimes a paragraph of words. I didn't bother hiding my confusion. I couldn't. They were obviously taken in secret. None of them revealed our awareness of the pictures being taken. 

I started reading one of the paragraphs, which had a picture of me in my swimming costume, attached to it - 
'Little Dante learnt to swim today. She looked so adorable in the water. She must be a fighter for she struggled so hard to stay afloat in the water. I am so proud of her. I wished I were the one teaching her how to swim. I wished I could be there for her forever. But that's okay... I love you, Dante.' 

I continued reading. There was a strange kind of ache that I was feeling. Who wrote this? Dante?

I tore my eyes off the pile, and then looked up at Jonathan. "Who wrote this? Who is Tyra Lee? Dante?" 
Jonathan bit down on his lips. His expressions maintained professional while he fished out another picture of a man. "He's Travis Lee." 

My fist clenched tighter at the sound of his name. His name rang in my head. Travis Lee. That's him. My heart pounded even faster. He killed my parents, and then himself. I tried to compose myself then the first name that I heard drifted into my head. Tyra Lee. They are related.

"Please take away his picture. Please," I pleaded, voice rising. Jonathan did. But his eyes bored into mine. 

"Tell me the truth." 

 

"We suspect that Travis Lee is your biological father." 
 

I broke down. I used every ounce of energy I had in me to try to contain this outburst but I couldn't. Too many emotions were running through my head. My head felt like it in a battlefield. All the emotions came clashing with the questions, and then came along pain and shock.

I didn't want to believe anything that I see or what Jonathan had said but the truth was laid out so blatantly. The man that I've spent my entire life hating could very possibly be my father. 

“Travis Lee was born to a Korean father and an American mother. What you have previously read is his diary. We found it at the basement of Tyra Lee’s apartment. We are still investigating the relationship between him and your parents. We have found some clues about his life before your birth, but because it has been too long, we need some time to retrieve the information. Aside from this diary, there is a box full of baby girls’ presents, which is assume it is for you. We also found-" 

I stood up. I didn't want to hear anymore of how ed up and twisted it can be. "I need to go." I walked towards the door but Jonathan stopped me. "Be strong, Hyunjae. I believe in you." 

I scoffed, "How could I?" I asked, trying my hardest to not cry, "How? Stay strong? I've been staying so ing strong for so long. I've been trying my best to move on. Then this happened. What the . I-" 

"Shh... Jae... It's okay." Jonathan put his arm over, lightly squeezing my shoulders. Just like 16 years ago, I didn't flinch away from his touch. Instead, I dug myself closer into him while I cried. He whispered, "It's okay...”

No, it’s not. I know it's not okay. He knows it isn't okay. Was anything making sense? It's not okay at all. But his words comforted me. The truth was being laid out so blatantly. There was no running away from it. 

I didn't stop crying. I poured all of my emotions in our embrace. I was crying for so many different reasons. I am hurt from the loss of my parents. I am anguished, that the killer, the man that I have spent my entire life hating on, could very possibly me my father. But these emotions don’t overwhelm the confusion. What about my mother? What does my mother has to do with him? Does my father know? What about my grandparents? Do they know about this? Because, why hasn’t anybody in the family brought up the very obvious distinct and westernized features I have?
 

"Can I make a phone call?" 
He nodded, while he walked out of the r