April.

He still had that same headache when he woke up. He didn't take any aspirin last night, hoping that he could just sleep it off. But the same thumping that made his eyes feel like rocks were growing from inside his eyelids was the same thumping that greeted him as the 7 am sun shone through his somehow open windowsill.

Tuesday immediately squint his already closed eyes and opened them to an orange, sunlight-tinted room. The hotel's door was cracked open a bit, the curtains drawn back on the doors right. Clothes were scattered all over the floor near the king-sized bed. His eyes leaned toward the wooden nightstand, holding a purple spiral notebook and a yellow lead pencil. The notebook's cover littered with scratch marks and pen writing of different names of places he wanted to visit since he was in Korea. He didn't even remember his father being here last night, he barely even remembered what he did last night.

His dad walks in and brings along with him a too-illuminating ray of sunlight that made his head thump faster and faster. Tuesday instinctively buries his head back into the pillow he was cradling. 

"Boy," dad is carrying food. The bags crunch as they hit the door entrance. He can't make out what food, because his nose is buried in the pillow, intentionally. His father shakes his foot at the end of the bed and Tuesday slowly moves. "Son, we gotta get ready. Them people want to meet us at 5 o'clock."

Dad is already dressed, placing the food on the bed next to Tuesday's feet. He doesn't bother to open the bags. Pulling out a set of clothes for him out of the suitcase sitting at the end of the bed, he nudges his foot again, his time harder. "You need to go shower up. You been in them clothes since yesterday." He says handing him a pair of black jeans and a white shirt. "You even got the shoes still on! This is why I don't drink. I don't know why you did that." 

Tuesday has managed to sit up by now and his eyes are a lot less blurry now. He can make out the groceries and see his dad's silver specks in his bushy beard. He looks down at his feet, long but skinny legs slankily laying over the bedspread. "No wonder my feet felt so heavy," he thought. He retrieves the clothes from his dad'sh and a small smile appears on his face. "Thanks, daddy." Tuesday knew his father was absolutely livid at him for drinking last night, he still feels the self-control he has that stops him from possibly kicking him out for being such a mess up. As if his father heard his thoughts simultaneously, he whips around and plants a kiss on his forehead. Daddy is just too good to him. Although Tuesday's fear of abandonment was a common motif that showed up in his life, he couldn't understand why the burning fear penetrated him and almost paralyzed the boy. He was 23, almost done with school, and well-liked. But the fear of what is—or what was, this being his mother—still made knots form in his stomach.

Tuesday got off the bed, slowly, and picked up his phone off the floor. Dangit. The screen had cracked while he tossed and turned last night or throughout whatever happened, through the case. He still couldn't remember what all happened after he came back from hanging with the boys, but he knew whatever occurred was in that unknown space of time. As much as he wanted to worry about that, he couldn't. Let me place that in my to do later box, he thought.

Heading to the bathroom, he sluggishly dragged his tired body and hits the light switch with his thumb. The bright light causes him to shut his eyes to adjust to the brightness. He shakes blond, curly-ish bangs across his forehead as well. Matted in sweat, causing them to appear quite brown. Once his eyes adjusts, he peeps his outfit. A blood stain dripped down his green army-colored trench styled jacket and the white shirt underneath. This isn't just a small, simple dot. He isn't sure, and doesn't really care if the blood is his or not. Tuesday had no idea where the blood came from. 

He wets his face with cold water and stares at himself. Knots begin to form in his stomach like the rocks are in his head. He's not sure if he should go back to where he was last night, the bar, or just take his keys and drive down the street somewhere until 7 pm, when the visit is over. He pushes back a blond lock of hair exposing his forehead. Brushes of anger and deep regret eat at his insides like parasites, the bags under his eyes from a lack of adequate sleep since they've been in Korea does nothing to soften the appearance of his distress. He looks unamused, defensive and ready to make a snappy remark at something she will say when she sees him. He thinks of some quickly, then shakes his head. Don't prepare for the worst, he thinks.

For a second, he thinks to the door and just go back to the bed, ignoring his dad's tussling and eventually asking him what he's doing. But he knew he promised his dad that he would go. That he would do this for him. That he would see where he came from, that he would be open to learning about his birth mother, Korean, like him, compared to his adopted father, black and sharing nothing in appearance, but close and almost all-knowing about each other.

"We will go on April 1st. The first day of spring." Tuesday remembers the conversation like it was yesterday when it was actually two years ago. That's when his behavior took a turn for the worst—days of silence and avoidance were inevitable between him and his sister, Zoe, whom was also adopted. Tuesday remembered telling her about what he was going to do. "I don't think you should go," she responded, in Korean. "She's the one who left you. I wouldn't go if I got the chance to meet my mom."

"She's the one who left you in the dirt." Those words still stung him as he took off his shoe and slipped on black converse high tops that were by the toilet. He wasn't sure if they were his shoes, but he slipped them on anyway. Zoe was right. Tuesday knew the story all too well about how he became Tuesday James Carter-Rois, not a random Korean boy name. Based in Korea in 1993, at seventeen years old, Christopher Carter-Rois was on break. While relaxing near a wooded area, he and some other army friends decided it would be an awesome idea to dig up some dirt and plant some orange seeds they got from the fruit they saved earlier. With what these men were dealing with, it was hard anyway not to think about death and what they were witnessing at such young ages constantly. So anything else to distract them seemed fun. Before Christopher lifted his shovel up to begin removing dirt, a friend noticed something white sticking out from the fresh dirt. None of the boys had stepped on this area yet. Christopher wasn't able to see it, as he was laughing and his head was turned toward another friend. He had blindly plunged a shovel into dirt before hundreds of times. He didn't think to check the ground, expecting there to be a baby underneath.

"Chris, stop!", the friend yells. "Wait, wait, wait wait. Move." He walks toward him and mentions for him to step back. Chris holds onto the shovel and fixes it on a nearby tree. Underneath the dirt, was a baby of, around 2 months, one eye open, one eye closed. Breathing was almost non-existent. When the friend picked it up, noticing it was a boy immediately as it was naked, Chris called the nurses through his walkie talkie out of habit. They had to do that when they saw a dead body of any kind. He had seen many dead things and people. Even some dead babies. He looked already dead. When Chris found out he wasn't, he couldn't let that go. For once, something wasn't dead, but close to death. That's different to see when you know what death looks like.

Tuesday shook the memory from his head. Or at least he tried to, and walked out of the bathroom. His dad's face sprung up and his eyebrows scrunched. "Did you take a shower, son?"

Tuesday stood emotionless with hands stuffed in pockets. He shook his head no.

Christopher sighed. It wasn't out of frustration or anger. But out of compassion. He had been trying to get Tuesday to open up about how he felt, but for two years, no avail. It wasn't until last night, when he came barging in the hotel room, crying and saying things in Korean, possibly swear words. That's when Chris knew he was right. Tuesday was stressed but not telling him.

Chris walked closer to his son, and lifted his chin up with his hand. Tuesday was avoiding eye contact. "If you don't want to go, we don't have to." His voice was deep and rich, a hint of South Texas accent coating his speech. He took note of his son's eyes. Outlined in red and dark bags under the narrow ovals. His baby. The same one who defied odds when he was closed to death. 

"No, can—can I do it?" It kind of came out like a question, but he meant to say it as a statement. A small lisp circled his "it". Tuesday wasn't comfortable with seeing his mom, or meeting anyone right now. If he had the choice, he would stay in the hotel room the rest of the two days he was here. But he also loved his dad. I'll do this for you, he thought.

"I want you to do this for you, Tuesday." Still holding his chin, not firmly. Tuesday looked up in his eyes. "I don't want you doing something you not ready for." Tuesday must have spoken that part out loud.

He nodded obediently. He still held his same reason why he wanted to do this. He didn't want to waste his father's time, money, and ruin the rest of his vacation, he thought. So he just swallowed his words and turned around to go take a shower.

He didn't feel like taking a shower or doing anything. But he peeled off the clothes and shoes and neatly placed them away from where the water would hit them, the clothes from last night still scattered across the bathroom floor.

The day dragged on slow. Before Tuesday knew it, it was 4:48 pm and he had 12 minutes until the visit was to begin. Chris chose to make the visit as short as possible when he saw how tired Tuesday looked. He knew he would never admit he was stressed like he did last night, because he wasn't drunk, and he wasn't oblivious. Common sense would prove that anyone would be nervous to meet someone they felt rejected by their whole life. 

Tuesday said little. The two men rode down streets and back alleys until 4:55 pm and it was time to face the monster. Tuesday hoped she cancelled and decided not to show up. Or she got ran over by a car and died suddenly. Yes, he knew that one was cruel. But he was OK with that. He wasn't really attached to her, he tried to convince himself of that but wasn't sure it was working.

He felt his dad's hand intertwine in his. Tuesday squeezed it tightly impulsively. The knots in his stomach started to increase as they pulled into the parking lot. The headache had turned into light thumps and he was a bit more receptive to the afternoon sunlight, (which could also be because he hasn't been wearing his glasses in the last two months) and he kept his eyes busy on whatever they settled on; a blue fire hydrant, a green house, an old man walking down the street.

"We gon' go through the front door right there. That's her house." Chris stopped the car after arriving at a small, quiet and closed off apartment complex. He pointed to the yellow building on the right; full of flowers and bright stuff. Tuesday felt his heart was going to burst though his chest; the knots in his stomach tripling by the seconds. This was something he couldn't avoid. It was way too late to tell his dad he wasn'tup for it anymore. The knots in his stomach started traveling up his throat and he felt nauseous for a second.

"Son, you ok?"

Tuesday's breathing increased and got heavier, but he still nodded yes. He would defy his feelings and his body, if that meant he wouldn't waste his father's precious time. Something he truly valued more than anything right now. "I'm good." Squeezing his dad's hand, he lets go and opens the car passenger door. Waiting for his father to come around to his side of the car, through heavy breaths, "can you go first?" His father nods without hesitation and grabs his hand to help him out of the car. Whatever happened in that house, he knew his father would see it first and not him.