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everything just welled up inside of me . . . the anger and resentment, the years of feeling abandoned. I shouted at him, ‘I wish you’d drop dead.’ And he did.”
    “Wait . . . for real?”
    “It happened three months later, out of the blue. He literally dropped dead of a massive heart attack. Words can be powerful things.”
    “How did that make you feel?”
    “Probably the same way you felt when you found out your mother had died. Racked with guilt. Depressed. Angry. For years there wasn’t a day that passed where I didn’t beat myself up. My guilt eventually sent me on a spiritual journey. I read every book I could find concerning life after death. I met with rabbis and came away with more questions. I researched Buddhism and Christianity; I saw a shrink . . . I studied Kabbalah and read the Zohar. It was only then that I began to understand there are no coincidences: that the chaos in our lives—the accidents and bad luck—happen because we don’t know the rules of the game. I realized that constantly beating myself up about my father’s death had turned me into a victim.”
    “I’m not a victim, Mrs. Solomon. I admit that I’m responsible for my mother’s death. It was my fault . . . I screwed up bad. How do I live with all the guilt? How do I go on?”
    “You begin by first taking responsibility for your actions.”
    I pounded my fist against the armrest of my chair, the woman pissing me off. “Didn’t you hear what I just said? I just said—”
    “What I heard was a confession, not a course of action that will allow you to experience happiness in your life.”
    “Who said anything about wanting to be happy? I killed my mother. I don’t deserve a speck of happiness.”
    “Spoken like a true victim. Trust me—you’re looking at someone who chose to remain a victim for twenty years. My parents, too. These were people who survived the Holocaust; they saw things no child should ever witness. My father couldn’t get past it; as a result he died an angry, bitter man. It’s your choice, Kwan. If you want to honor your mother by spending the next seventy years wallowing in your own misery—go for it. Or you can make her proud by doing something meaningful with your life. Remember, within you lies the force of giving, sharing, loving, caring, and being generous to others. No matter what you’ve done, there’s good still inside you, Kwan Wilson, after all every soul is pure. What you clothe it in while you live out this lifetime is ultimately up to you. Find happiness through the act of sharing. Help other people . . . that’s how you’ll earn your redemption. Okay?”
    I didn’t know whether to agree or disagree, so I just nodded.
    And then this woman whom I had just met did something my own father refused to allow himself to do—something Sun Jung had managed to avoid doing since the day I had accidentally killed her daughter.
    Rachel Solomon walked around her desk . . . and hugged me.
    Overwhelmed with guilt, I had marooned myself on an island of shame and refused to be rescued. To suddenly, unexpectedly feel the warm embrace of another human being . . . to know someone else cared about me unconditionally . . . it was like being freed from a life sentence in prison.
    On that first day of high school, God sent me a stranger’s kindness to remind me that he still loved me.
    And oh my, how the dam did burst—a dam of emotions I had no idea even existed. Wrapping my arms around Mrs. Solomon’s neck, I wept a river of tears, clinging to her like a drowning child clings to a life preserver.

5
    I left Rachel Solomon’s office just after one o’clock, eating avocado from a paper cup. I felt lighter, like a weight had been lifted, but emotionally I was spent. I still had half an hour until school let out, so I found my way to the cafeteria to grab something more substantial to eat.
    Café Seacrest was set up like a food court you’d find in a shopping mall. I wheeled past Beyond Burgers and