“Baba? Omma?” I had called out to them. They wouldn’t answer me.

   I remember that I had hurried up the stone paved path, up to the house that I had lived in all my life. Up to my parents whose expressions carried a certain heaviness to it that I had never quite seen ever before, My mother would not look at me even as I drew closer. I had pulled out my small satchel, the coins from that day’s earnings clinked together inside the small bag. It was not much, but I remember believing that if I were to continue to sell just as much of the peach bao as I did that day– Buddha willing– we could save our home. My father had taken the small bag, when I had offered it to him. He opened it carefully and swiftly counted up the amount.

 But it wasn’t enough.

    “Sakiko.” he had said firmly, the fondness that he had once held in his voice when he had called my name didn’t seem to exist anymore. 

    “Yes, Baba?” I was nervous, had I done something wrong? Why was Omma sad? Why won’t she look at me?

    His face would remain cold, as he told me something that I will never forget. The words that made my mother hysterical, she had run inside. My father shouted for her, telling her to stop acting so irrational. I stood there, frozen still. What did he just say? No, that can’t be true. Would they really do this to me? I'm their only child, their first born. I'm only a child. 

    “We have sold you to a generous bachelor in America to be married.”

    I cried and sobbed, begging not to go. I remember having to pack my things, my mother combing my hair for the last time, the smell of the flowers in the temple garden, the peach trees whose fruit were supposed to be that of which would save us from this fate. But it wasn’t enough. I had been taken in a Kei truck down to the docks, the sky had gone dark. I was ushered onto a boat in the dark, and as we had pulled away from the harbor I had gripped the railing. My mother buried her face into the fabric of my father’s clothes, even as I left she couldn’t bear to look at me. My father was stock still, his expression indecipherable as I was drawn out farther and farther away from my home, my family, and my life.  

    I was on the boat with several other women, who spoke of their husbands in America. Boasting and comparing which was more handsome and whose lives were going to be more prosperous, I didn’t know who the man I was supposed to meet even was, what his temperament was like, his occupation, or his home. The rocking of the boat made many of the women nauseous, many of the women spoke of daughters they had to leave behind in Japan. And thus couldn’t bear to look me in the eye, just as my mother did. Perhaps it hurt them to remember. I remember that some didn’t make the journey, some carried guilt, some got sick, some gave birth to a child from a lover that was not of her husband’s kin, some jumped and let the sea swallow them up. 

    I remember the day we docked in America, the sun bored into me, I dripped with sweat and smelled as though I had been a walking corpse. The women on the boat were stopped by strange men with even stranger accents, claiming to be their husbands and addressing them by name. Some of the men were not who they said they were, they didn’t have nice suits or drive nice cars, they didn’t have homes or riches, they didn't own businesses, some of them didn’t even wear the same face as the men in the photos. One by one the women departed the harbor with the men, whether it was willingly or not. I remember a man, he appeared to be young and in his twenties. 

    “Sakiko? Sato, Sakiko?” he had asked some of the few remaining women who shook their heads in response. 

    “I'm here!” I called out to him. 

     He had approached me and offered to take my things, I hesitated a moment before obliging. He said that it was nice to finally meet me, and that once I was home that I should make it a point to bathe. ‘Home’. Home was not with him, it was with my Omma and Baba, it was in my ancestral home with our peach trees. I simply nodded in silence and followed him to a sleek, yet small car. He had opened the back door and I had gotten in, the seats were hot, and the air was stuffy. He had placed my things in the trunk and closed it with a harsh ‘ca-thunk!’ He got in the driver's seat and drove us away from the docks. I remember looking out the window and seeing nothing but buildings and people everywhere, music played from the radio in some sort of gibberish that I couldn’t understand. Where were all the trees? Did they not have trees in America? 

     I remember when we had arrived at his home, it was a one story house with a small chain wire fence around it. He had retrieved my belongings from the trunk and slammed it down once more, he led me up the front steps and pulled out a set of keys. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, outstretching a hand in a gesture to invite me in. I remember being shown around the house, where I would sleep, the kitchen that I would cook in, what I could and could not touch, and the small yard in which my sons would play. I remember getting older, and learning to speak English, how to cash a check, how to buy something from the store, how to order the food I wanted at a restaurant. I remember when Matsuko and Saiko were playing out in the dirt, as I was preparing lunch. 

     The television began playing a travel advertisement for a place in Japan, it was my home village. I saw as the camera would blur in and out with different colorful words flashing across the screen, I saw as the camera would pan across a shot of a grove of peach trees. Those were my peach trees. A shot of a ‘well preserved 153 year old temple with a beautiful garden!’ That was my family's garden and my ancestor’s temple. My heart sank as a shot of a house appeared, a ‘traditional style japanese home! Well maintained and well furnished!’ That was my house. ‘Call today to schedule your dream japan vacation stay today by dialing the number-’ I turned off the television. Quietly turning back to the stove and finishing up preparing the food, calling for my boys to come back inside. I cleaned off the dirt off their faces, and sat them down to eat. Looking down at my small serving, something in me wanted to scream, to cry, to be angry, to want to find a way to jump into the pictures on the screen and return home. But then I remembered. To do such things as a wife and a mother were irrational. My children began to take notice that something was wrong, so I simply smiled at them. Taking the fork into my hand and scooping up a morsel of rice into my mouth. Then I remembered. 

    I can never go back.