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Fifty minutes later, here I stand in my parent's mansion

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Fifty minutes later, here I stand in my parent's mansion.

"Oh, my God, Jane."

After almost five years of exile, what did I expect?

Rebecca's mouth remains open as though she perceived a ghost.

"What are you doing here?"

"I missed you too. If you are not happy, I can stay somewhere else. It's just I imagined since I have parents, perhaps I could put them to good use."

It's a bluff; I need to stay here. I don't know what I'll do if I'm in a me-myself-and-I situation, mainly since I'm not a fan of my personality.

Rebecca purses her lips, "you haven't changed."

"Neither have you."

That's how my relationship is with Rebecca; she's one of those typical American cliché moms. The ones who try to win society's model pageant, stalking galas and brunches like leeches. The kind of mom who would love to flaunt her children's achievements. Unfortunately for her, she only has Abby to fill the status.

Rebbecca is a mix of Desperate Housewives Bree Van Der Kamp. Yeah, she's a redhead and Sex in the City's Charlotte York. She is as prude as a broomstick.

Neither of us knows each other, and we have never tried. We are opposites with only one thing in common, DNA.

The closest thing I had to a real mom was Maria, our household maid in New York. She's the one who changed my diapers and stayed up late when I had the Measles while Rebecca accompanied my father around the world. I make a mental note to leave Maria or her descendants a piece of my heritage if my parents decide to leave me anything.

It's hard to believe I even persuaded my parents to take me with them when my father got his nomination for South Korea.

Your American girl in love with Kpop and firmly expecting some chaebol to fall head over heels for her got fired up. A teen convinced my bright eyes and fairness of skin would seduce them.

Persuaded Koreans were as fascinated as I was about foreigners and that they were all waiting for my arrival at Incheon with I LOVE YOU JANE banners and roses. I was on my hands and knees, begging my parents to be on the convoy to Seoul.

Okay, I admit it, I had an Asian fetish. In my defense, I was young and foolish, precisely like I am now. The only difference is I don't dream of any whirlwind romance with a Korean guy or any other guy anymore because it will only be a whirlwind of pain.

Those Kpop pop videos didn't just have me bopping heads, but they also had me wishing JB, Kai, Park Hyung Sik, Park Bo-Gum, and I don't know who else would defy all to be with me like in the fanfics I used to read.

Once here, I realized boys interested in me had the objective of improving their grades by practicing speaking in English, and if there was something else, it was mere infatuation.

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