I sat there digging into my frozen cantaloupe smoothie, counting my chubby fingers. There's one, two, plus me...okay, that makes three girls. Then there's one, two.... That's it, just two boys. What was my mom thinking? She only had five kids.
Soon everything fell into place, like clockwork it seemed. A Caucasian man in jeans and a collared shirt rang the door bell and asked if my parents were home. Speaking perfect Vietnamese, he and my mother exchanged a few words and everyone erupted into tears. Some days or months or months and days later, my family and relatives congregated at the airport lobby. I still remember the red velvet dress I wore, and the way my sister and I ran through the sliding doors.
Then it happened. A flood of people ran toward something, someone. Hugs, kisses, tears, laughter and commotion. It wasn't until many years later that I realized why we were there that day and what had happened years before that led up to that day. It was a warm welcome for number three, my third brother, who had been living in Vietnam with my grandma during my first six years of life. A brother who, until that moment, I didn't even know existed. A person who, at the time, was a complete stranger. Someone who came home with us, slept under the same roof as us, ate dinner with us, fought with us and soon enough became a part of us. Three boys and three girls.
