Zophia University Trilogy (3): : Former Expats are Cheat : 80's American Obsession

 

 

This is a story of a Japanese girl who was totally obsessed with Ameirca, based on my real experience of encountering many people at a University in Tokyo back in  90's..

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I never lose. No way, no how. That’s just not me.

Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve been obsessed with America. Like, OBSESSED.

Back in the Showa era, around 1970's, Japan was flooded with all this American stuff—TV shows, movies, music. You name it.

And let’s be real: America is just... wow. It’s the best at everything. Biggest, strongest, richest. The land of freedom and opportunity. Where else has THAT much influence on the whole world? Nowhere.

America’s the kind of country everyone looks up to. The kind of country people dream about. The kind of country that someone as amazing as me deserves to be in.

Someday, I’ll live there. I’ll talk just like them. I’ll fit right in, like I was born for it. Honestly, I feel like I already belong there more than I do here.

The older I got, the more obsessed I became. My parents noticed pretty early on. And, of course, because I’m their golden child, they did whatever they could to help me “connect” with America.

They bought me this fancy video deck, so I could record American kids’ shows - Sesame Street. I must’ve watched those tapes a million times. Seriously, I wore them out.

And American movies? Ugh, gorgeous. Walt Disney's animation, the stories, the magic—it was everything. I didn’t even care that I didn’t understand half of what was being said. I was just proud to be watching the same stuff American kids did. Like, how cool was that?

By elementary school, I was already taking English conversation lesson after school. I was, obviously, the best in the class. We’d sing the ABC song and repeat whatever the teacher said, and I’d do it louder and better than anyone else.

Every teacher adored me. They’d say, “Marina, your English sounds just like a real American girl!” I mean, duh. Of course, it does.

When middle school rolled around, English class at school was a total joke. Too easy. Every test? Perfect score. Who else could even try to compete with me?

One day, my English teacher asked if I’d enter the national English speech contest. Naturally, I said yes. This was my moment to shine.

My parents were thrilled. Dad even said he’d take the day off work to watch me compete. I felt like a star already.

The topic was about building connections between Japanese and American kids. Easy enough, right? I nailed the practice rounds and was ready to dominate.

But then—get this—I didn’t win the preliminary contest at school. I came in second.

SECOND!

I was livid. It had to be a mistake. There’s no way someone else deserved it more than me. I marched right up to the teacher and demanded they rethink the results. They didn’t.

Fine. Whatever. I didn’t get to go to the National contest, but that just made me even more determined. I’d show them all.

One day, I’ll go to America, and I’ll speak English so flawlessly they’ll think I grew up there. I’ll prove to everyone that I’m better than they ever imagined.

That dream kept me going. I doubled down on my English studies, pushing myself harder than ever.

Because let’s face it: when it comes to greatness, I don’t settle for second place. Ever.

So yeah, I bombed my high school entrance exams. Big whoop.

It wasn’t my fault, though. The plan was to get into this swanky private school with a killer English program—totally my vibe. They even had a study abroad thing. But nooo, I didn’t get a recommendation. Why? Because apparently, scoring average or below in every subject except English isn’t enough for them. 

Whatever. All the good schools with English programs shut their doors on me, so I had to settle for the local public high school. Can you imagine? Me, stuck there with the mediocre masses?

Anyway, I joined the basketball team. Why basketball? Because it’s so American. I mean, just dribbling a ball made me feel like I was already living my high school dream in California or something. I threw myself into it—extra drills, shooting practice, running laps. Every single day, no excuses.

But here’s the thing about Japanese sports clubs: they’re all about this ancient, lame hierarchy. Freshmen are at the bottom of the food chain, and seniors? They’re treated like royalty, even if they suck.

Take our practices, for example. Only third-years got to play in actual games. Us first-years? We were stuck doing the grunt work—picking up balls, mopping the floor, and endlessly running drills. It was like we didn’t even exist as players.

And let me tell you, watching those so-called “upperclassmen” strut around like they were hot stuff made me want to scream. Just because they were born a year or two earlier doesn’t mean they’re better. Where’s the skill? Where’s the merit?

In America—my dreamland—sports are all about talent, not age. Fair play, freedom, equality. This Japanese hierarchy nonsense was so outdated, it was laughable. And I was gonna change it.

Fast forward two and a half years, and guess who got to be captain? That’s right—me. I led our team to the prefectural tournament. And get this: not one senior played in that tournament. I finally got to shove their condescending attitude right back in their faces.

As captain, I scrapped the whole seniority system. I made sure everyone had a shot, no matter their age. It was about time someone brought a little American-style fairness to the team. If you had the skill, you played—end of story.

Honestly, I couldn’t wait to leave that outdated hierarchy behind for good. Once I get to America, this kind of nonsense won’t even be a thing.

After our final game in my third year, I said goodbye to basketball. It was time to focus on college entrance exams. Math and Japanese were my Achilles’ heel, so I had to grind hard on those.

But my passion for English? Still burning hot. My parents kept buying me the latest textbooks and practice books, and I devoured them. I wanted to sound so American that people would double-take when they heard me speak.

I also read every travel memoir and expat story about America I could get my hands on. It felt like I was already halfway there, soaking up all that info.

In my head? I was already living my American dream.

I wanna live in America. Like, actually live there. Chatting it up with locals, blending right in like I belong.

By the time I hit senior year of high school, I had it all figured out. I was gonna study English linguistics or communication. Obviously, I was meant for it. Fast forward to spring of 1989—guess who got into their dream private university in Tokyo called Zophia? Yep, yours truly. And not just any department, but the prestigious English program.

This place was the real deal. It was known for its international vibe, packed with exchange students. Zophia University's campus was like stepping into an Ivy League brochure—brick buildings lined with towering ginkgo trees. It felt so American.

Finally, this was my stage. Time to show everyone what real, American-level English sounded like.

The program divided students by entrance exam scores. Top 40 made it into the elite four groups, and the rest? Shuffled into six lower-tier groups, no rhyme or reason.

And guess what? I landed in the fourth group from the top. Not bad, huh? Being part of the chosen few felt so good. Naturally, I assumed I’d be the best of the bunch. Like, duh.

On day one, I made my grand entrance. I’d bought this book band—totally American-style, like the kind you see college students using in movies. I strapped my notebook and shiny new Webster’s English Dictionary together in a perfect cross, hugging it to my chest as I strutted across campus.

I’d also pulled together the ultimate look: a Ralph Lauren button-down with the collar popped (obviously), paired with a long, tight skirt. I could’ve been ripped straight from an Elle spread. My freshly grown-out hair (thanks to ditching basketball) flowed in the spring breeze as I walked, making sure everyone could see the Webster’s logo on my dictionary.

Webster’s wasn’t just a dictionary—it was the dictionary. A symbol of American intellect. Unlike the losers lugging around their basic English-Japanese dictionaries, I was leveling up. I was the real deal. People passing by probably thought I was American. I mean, how could they not?

Then came my English conversation class. Our teacher? Father O’Donnell, a Cathoric priest straight outta America. He was the kind of guy you’d imagine teaching at some quaint New England college—proper, but chill.

The class setup was intimate. Ten of us, all top scorers, arranged in a square so we could see each other’s faces. The room had this old-school charm with wood-paneled desks and whitewashed walls. Perfect.

From the get-go, I could tell the others weren’t on my level. Their English was laughable—full of awkward Katakana accents and broken grammar. I mean, was I surprised? Of course not. I was clearly the star of this show.

I lived for the moments Father O’Donnell called on me. The thrill of understanding his questions, of knowing I could respond in flawless, native-level English? It was chef’s kiss.

Every time I spoke, my American-accented English filled the room. I could feel Father O’Donnell’s eyes on me, probably thinking, Wow, is she a transfer student from the States? Yep, Father, that’s how good I am.

Should I answer his next question using comparative structures? Or maybe I’ll throw in a perfectly balanced base-level comparison. Decisions, decisions.

I mean, I’m basically a native speaker. Mistakes? Not in my vocabulary.

There was this guy in my class who’d lived in Canada for a few years. Let’s call him Canada Boy. He thought he was such a big shot, always jumping in to answer questions before anyone else had the chance. I mean, seriously, who does that?

Take today, for example. The topic was student drinking culture—like, how creative. Anyway, Father O’Donnell asked, in his usual calm and proper way:

"I believe some of you have joined saakuru. Have you been to izakaya for drinking? Did some of you do ikkinomi? This is a very Japanese custom, the ikkinomi."

Before anyone else could even open their mouths, Canada Boy swooped in, hijacking the entire conversation.

"Yes, I saw some of the seniors doing ikki. But I don’t think it’s a particularly Japanese thing. I read in a newspaper that binge drinking is a problem among university students in Canada. What do you say, guys? Has anyone read or seen someone in abroad drinking heavily?"

Ugh, can you not? Like, what’s his deal? Just because he can speak a little English, he thinks he’s entitled to disrupt the flow of the class?

Kid of former expat. This is exactly why I can’t stand them. They’ve got no sense of decorum. Everyone knows you wait your turn, and you only speak when the professor calls on you. That’s how it works. Equal opportunity for everyone, right? But this guy? No, he’s out here hogging the spotlight. So embarrassing.

And yet, for some reason, Father O’Donnell is always praising him. Calling him proactive. Saying he’s the leader of our English conversation class. Seriously?

I couldn’t stand it. Just because he speaks a little English, he gets to be the “leader”? The guy’s completely out of line, breaking class rules and stealing chances from everyone else to speak. And that makes him a leader? Give me a break.

A real leader is someone like me. I was the captain of my high school basketball team, thank you very much. I know what it takes to lead—discipline, fairness, respect for others. Not just some random kid who happened to live in Canada for a bit.

The nerve of it all. Calling him a leader? Over my dead body.

I decided to join the English conversation club. It seemed like the perfect way to show off my flawless English skills and maybe help out a few hopeless cases along the way. I mean, it’s not like anyone there could possibly be better than me, right?

The club met in one of those generic, freshly built classrooms that smelled like new paint and cheap linoleum. Every day during lunch, we’d all gather to “discuss” things in English. And by “discuss,” I mean sit through a bunch of barely comprehensible Katakana-accented babble.

Seriously, it was painful. I could barely keep a straight face listening to them butcher the language I’ve practically perfected. I needed to show them how it’s done.

So, there I was, waiting for one of the senior members to call on me during the discussion. Just one chance—that’s all it would take. The moment they heard my perfect, native-level pronunciation, jaws would drop. I could already picture it.

The club was divided into three groups: public speaking, discussions, and debates.

Naturally, I chose public speaking. It was my chance to reclaim glory after a certain, shall we say, less-than-stellar experience back in high school. But for now, the seniors were too busy with some speech contest prep to even bother showing up to lunch meetings. Classic upperclassman elitism, if you ask me.

Eventually, though, I heard whispers about a senior in the English department who was part of the speech group. Naturally, I was curious. What kind of person from our department would join this club?

Answer: nothing special. Probably someone who couldn’t string together a decent sentence and thought this was the only way to survive. I mean, if you’re in the English department and still need an English conversation club, you’re basically admitting you’re bad at English.

When I finally met the infamous senior, she was about as unimpressive as I expected. Her name was Saki Inaba, a third-year. She had this plain, shoulder-length dark hair and was wearing the most basic denim-on-denim outfit imaginable, paired with Converse sneakers. Oh, and she carried a red backpack that looked like it came from some bargain bin. I mean, seriously. She might as well have been a high school freshman.

“Hi, Inaba-senpai! I’m Marina Serizawa, a first-year. We’re in the same English department!” I said, flashing my most dazzling smile.

"Oh, how lovely! Another addition to the English Department! Hey, Yama-chan, did you hear? She’s in English too!"

"Really, Saki? That’s brilliant! Now we’ve got all three years covered in English!"

Turns out “Yama-chan” was Yamazaki, a second-year who, rumor had it, was in the top-ranked class of our department. Just my luck. A rival. He was tall and skinny, with a white shirt and jeans. Completely unremarkable, but still, I couldn’t help but size him up.

I clenched my teeth behind my grin. This was fine. I could handle this. I just had to play the part of the sweet, eager junior.

"Saki was in Class 3 during her first year, you know. She was supposed to be in Class 2 originally, but, well, due to some teacher swaps, she got moved to the lower class. Apparently, it was because of a request from Fr. O'Donnell. She said the class was too boring," Yama-chan explained.

Bumped down? Yikes. Must’ve been a bad student. But whatever, Class 3 isn’t that much better than my Class 4.

“Yes, Serizawa-san!” Inaba said, smiling like we were all besties, “we’ve got English department students in all three grades now! It's nice to have more people from the same department around”

“Senpai, I heard you were in Class 3 during your first year?” I asked, all innocent-like. 

"I'm in Class four, with Fr. O Doonel"'

"Oh, you were in his class too!"

"I'm in Class 4"

I leaned in closer, lowering my voice. “Wow, senpai, that’s so interesting. It’s like we’re equals now, huh?”

"Hmm, well, my major’s finished now. I’ve moved on from conversation class."

"Even so, you’re still in Class 3, and I’m in Class 4, so it doesn’t really change much, does it? We’re at the same level, after all."

"Ah, you’ve got a point. Well, keep up the good work!"

Keep it up? That’s it? No jealousy? No panic?

I just handed her a chance to feel insecure about herself, and she didn’t even flinch. Unbelievable.

"By the way, Serizawa-san, about Class 4... You know, Fr. O'Donnell was complaining this year about how unenthusiastic the first-years are. He said they’re just not engaging in class. So, if you could make an effort to speak up and contribute during lessons, it would really help. He’s been so frustrated, and he’s been venting to me about it. Honestly, there’s not much I can do to help, but I thought I’d let you know."

I froze. How does she know that? Why is the professor even telling her these things? Is she some kind of teacher’s pet?

Her breezy, all-knowing attitude made me sick. Who does she think she is, acting like she’s got some special connection? It’s disgusting. Just wait—her little bubble is going to pop soon enough.

Akiyama, the leader of the speech group, got up to make an announcement. She was this short, energetic senior who looked like she had stepped out of a Benetton ad in her bright orange polo shirt. Super peppy, totally the kind of person who tries too hard to be everyone’s favorite.

“Thanks to everyone who participated in the speech contest!” she chirped. “We finally won the spring competition of Zophia cup, so let’s keep up the momentum this year. And to show the new first-years what we do, we’ll be holding a mock speech contest after tomorrow’s classes. After that, drinks and karaoke, so don’t forget!”

Drinks and karaoke? Now this was a club I could get behind.

The next day, I walked into the designated classroom feeling totally confident. I made sure to pop the collar on my white Lacoste polo shirt—because hello, statement piece.

The classroom was one of those fancy lecture halls with semi-circular, tiered desks made of polished wood. The seniors giving speeches were gathered at the front, all looking annoyingly serious as they studied their notes. They were dressed up too—suits, ties, even polished leather shoes. Like, relax, it’s just a practice round.

“Welcome! Grab a seat anywhere you like. We’re just about to start,” Akiyama said, flashing her perfect little leader smile.

“Where’s the best spot to hear the English clearly?” I asked, making sure my voice carried.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. Everyone’s voices are super loud—you might be shocked!”

She wasn’t kidding. When the speeches started, the volume was ridiculous. It wasn’t impressive; it was obnoxious. Honestly, it was all I could do not to roll my eyes.

The speeches themselves? Ugh. They were classic “famous speeches” from history.

Martin Luther King Jr.
Gandhi
Mother Teresa
Charlie Chaplin’s movie monologues

Seriously? That’s it?

Where was Reagan? Kennedy? Lincoln? Where was the American flair—the bold, confident, knock-your-socks-off speeches? These seniors clearly had no idea how to captivate an audience.

And the accents? Don’t even get me started. Most of them were straight-up Katakana English, like nails on a chalkboard. Every time someone opened their mouth, I wanted to stand up and yell, Just let me do it!

Then, Inaba stepped up. According to the program, she was reciting a speech by Queen Elizabeth II.

Of course, Queen Elizabeth. Could she be any more of an Anglophile? I was ready to cringe my way through her speech when she started talking, and … I was stunned.

What I was hearing wasn’t the awkward, choppy English I’d expected. It wasn’t even American English. It was this smooth, polished accent that sounded almost foreign but not quite. Like, who even was this person?

“Inaba-san! Are you, like, a foreigner or something?” I blurted before I could stop myself.

“Marina, shush!” someone hissed.

“She’s not a foreigner,” another whispered. “Her dad is a former expat. She studied abroad.”

My jaw dropped. A former expat? A kid of former expat ? That plain-looking girl with the zero-effort fashion sense? I’d pegged her as a regular public high school nobody. Someone whose English was probably on par with or even worse than mine.

But now? She was up there, sounding like an actual English aristocrat.

No. There had to be a catch.

It’s just a speech, I told myself.

Memorized lines. Anyone can sound good if they practice enough. This wasn’t some innate talent or skill—it was just rote learning. I could do it too, easily. Probably better, if I’m being honest.

I sat up straighter, adjusting my collar again. My time would come.

When I got my chance, I’d get up there and blow them all away with true, unapologetic American English. No more of this polite, soft-spoken nonsense. I’d show them what a real speech sounded like.

And when that day comes? Oh, they’ll remember my name.

When the mock speech event wrapped up, we headed off for dinner and karaoke. The restaurant was one of those casual izakayas where everyone crammed into tiny tables, laughing way too loudly and acting like we were best friends or something. After that, we shuffled over to a karaoke place next door.

The seniors in this English club had surprisingly varied song choices—everything from rock to folk, pop idol hits, and even anime themes. I stuck to trending pop songs, naturally. Gotta keep it current.

But then, this screen popped up with a song title in weird foreign letters.

“Oh, that’s me,” Inaba said, casually grabbing the mic.

And guess what started playing? A song from Les Misérables. Yeah, the musical.

She sang it. In English. Like, actual, fluent, barely-accented English.

I couldn’t believe it.

Just as I was starting to recover from her Queen Elizabeth speech earlier, she hits me with this. A flawless Broadway performance. My jaw clenched, and I glared daggers at her.

But then I took a deep breath. Calm down, Marina. It’s just a song. A rehearsed song. Anyone can sing if they practice enough, right? Big deal.

And let’s not forget, Inaba probably couldn’t hold a regular English conversation to save her life. Unlike me, who’s been told by actual Americans that I sound like a “totally authentic American girl.” Yeah, she’s got nothing on me. She’ll crack soon enough.

The next week, we freshmen got our first real assignment—writing our own speeches. The speeches would be presented at an upcoming contest for new members. Three minutes long, with a choice of five thrilling topics:

1. The Role of the United Nations in World Peace
2. Globalization of Japanese Society and Its Future
3. The Pros and Cons of International Education Systems
4. The Purpose and Contribution of the Olympics
5. The Importance of International Exchange

Naturally, I chose number five—international exchange. Specifically, the relationship between Japan and America.

Honestly, Japan is seriously lacking in American influence. I’ve thought about this a lot. We need more American culture, more American products, more American everything. That’s how Japan can even hope to stand on equal ground with the greatest country in the world.

I poured my heart into that speech. Every sentence was crafted with care—prepositions placed perfectly, conjunctions making the text flow like poetry, compound nouns chosen with a native speaker’s ear.

I spent five days on it, pulling an all-nighter on the last one. When I finally turned it in to the seniors for review, I was so proud. But then—disaster.

The draft came back covered in red ink. I mean, completely. They’d ripped it apart—grammar corrections, tweaks for clarity, changes to make it “more engaging for the audience.” By the time they were done, nearly 80% of my work was erased.

I wanted to scream.

“Don’t take it too personally,” one of the seniors said with a smile. “Everyone gets this their first time. Just study the corrections—it’s a great way to improve your English!”

Yeah, sure. Easy for them to say. What really got under my skin? It wasn’t just anyone who shredded my speech—it was Inaba.

Apparently, she had lived in New Zealand, which seemingly made her the top English speaker here. Someone even said, “Inaba’s the best at this in our group.”

Excuse me? Better than me?

“Oh, but isn’t Yamazaki higher-ranked in the department?” I asked, keeping my tone oh-so-casual.

“Yamazaki? Oh, he’s special. He aced his grammar exams but he isn’t great at conversation. He’s focusing on speeches to improve that.”

Right. Of course. And yet, it’s Inaba who’s playing queen of the red pen.

I clenched my fists.

Seriously, who does she think she is? Same academic level as me, but she acts like she’s some kind of genius? Fixing my work like she’s my teacher? What a joke.

------------------------------------------

Once the edits on my speech were done, we moved on to the next stage—reading it aloud. I was ready to go, thinking maybe, just maybe, I had done a decent job. But, of course, the seniors were ready with their corrections. Again.

“Your pronunciation’s off. You’re not finishing your sentences. It’s hard to hear the end of your words.”

“Your consonants are weak. People won’t understand you if you keep talking like that.”

“Try to project more, really push your voice out.”

“What’s the word you want the audience to hear most clearly?”

“Your voice is too soft. Are you unsure of yourself? Speak louder, from your belly!”

“If you want to emphasize something, add a little gesture. Don’t just stand there stiff as a board.”

I was about to lose it. Was this some kind of joke? I’d spent all this time perfecting my native English pronunciation, and now they were telling me I was doing it all wrong?

“Speeches aren’t like regular conversation,” Akiyama-senpai explained, “You need to enunciate every single word, clearly. When you speak American English, like you do, your consonants get lost, and your words flow together. They don’t reach the audience. Maybe you should try mimicking news anchors on American TV.”

I had to bite my lip to keep from snapping. I’d been watching American news programs forever, practicing my speech patterns, imitating their tone and rhythm, and now they were telling me to do what, exactly?

And then, of course, I heard Inaba’s voice carrying across the room.

"You’re doing so much better now, honestly, so don’t stress about your pronunciation just yet. What we really need is for you to speak louder, so everyone in the room can hear you clearly. Once we’ve got that sorted, then we can focus on your pronunciation and enunciation. Sound good?"

Wait. Did she just—

She was speaking in English. But it wasn’t English like my English. It was mumbled, garbled, the kind of English I’d never heard come out of anyone’s mouth before.

What. The. Heck.

How was this person even speaking English?

I overheard the seniors gossiping amongst themselves.

“Oh no, Saki's really getting into it now.”
“When she flips the English switch, she just goes full throttle, huh? A real baptism for the first-years.”
“But... I’m not sure first-years can understand half of what she’s saying.”
“Well, our club is an English conversation club, so it’s all part of the process.”

I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore. I had to ask.

“Wait a minute. Inaba’s supposed to be in the lower-level group in our department, right? Is she really using real English? Because it sounds totally different from what I’ve been taught.”

“Oh, don’t worry. Didn’t we tell you? Inaba lived in New Zealand. And her English has been approved by Professor O’Donnell, so you’re safe.”

New Zealand.
 
A former expats?

I felt the frustration building up inside me, ready to explode.

Former expats.

Wait. What?

Returnee.

So that’s why she was acting so superior!

It all clicked.

She’d lived in New Zealand and was throwing around her so-called “English skills” like they were the gold standard. She had the nerve to go around correcting people—me—on my work, acting like she had it all figured out.

All because she had decent pronunciation. Big deal.

But then there was something that bugged me even more.

A former expat? But... she didn’t go to America? What kind of returnee doesn’t go to America? I mean, when you think of someone who’s lived abroad, you think America, right? That’s where the culture, the language, the values come from.

But New Zealand? What was that even supposed to mean?

This made no sense.

But, hold on...

If she went to New Zealand in middle school, then how much could she have really learned? I mean, she didn’t go as a little kid, like a real “kid of former expat.” The true ones go when they’re young—like kindergarten or elementary school. Middle school? Nah. That’s not enough time to pick up the language the way they say you should.

And New Zealand? Pfft. Compared to the U.S., New Zealand didn’t have anywhere near the same impact.

I tried to tell myself it wasn’t a big deal. She was just some middle school exchange student, probably not as great as everyone made her out to be. I was sure of it. Absolutely.

The days flew by, and the speech contest for the first-year students, with the seniors acting as judges, was drawing closer.

That day, Akiyama-senpai, who usually guided us, was absent, and I found myself stuck with Inaba-senpai for the lesson.

I wasn’t thrilled about it. Sure, everybody  kept mentioning New Zealand, but was she really good at English? What if she taught me something weird?

I read my speech aloud, and Inaba started talking while looking at the materials Akiyama-senpai had given her.

"Right, I think you're still not emphasising the right words in each sentence. The words to emphasise are already written in the script, you know? When you say those words, can you project your voice a bit more? Also, your movements are a bit stiff—try to relax a little, yeah?"

I had to read it again.

“...So, iriez crear zeato-oh Ameerica yando Japyean musda kaoperay foah za nexto genereiti-aan. Zis izu wharai gatta sei. Senkyuu you foah ristenin'.”

After hearing me, Inaba-senpai nodded and continued.

"Hmm, for the last part, you wanted to emphasise 'cooperate,' right? But if you also emphasise 'clear'—like, 'clear' and 'cooperate'—it'll make it sound even better."

“Wait, really? Akiyama-senpai didn’t say anything like that…”

"Ah, didn’t she? Well, in that case, let’s stick with her method. Let’s just try that last part again, okay?"

“...Ameerica yando Japyean musda KAOPERATE! foah za nexto genereiti-aan."

I was still skeptical. Maybe Inaba’s advice was wrong, and I wasn’t about to just trust her.

"Ah, yes, that’s better! If you emphasise the word like that, I think the audience will really get it. Now, whatever we worked on today, just review it with Akiyama tomorrow, alright?"

With that, Inaba pulled out a small paperback from her backpack and went over to help Yumi.

“Hallo! Shall we begin then?”
“Any time!”

They started switchng in English, and it was clear Yumi-chan wasn’t struggling with it. According to her, she had lived in Scotland when she was younger, and she’d said, “When I learn from Inaba-senpai, it’s like all the English I forgot comes back.”

Now, I was even more sceptical about Inaba-senpai’s English. So, I casually asked Yumi-chan about it.

“No, it’s just regular English. She went to New Zealand when she was older, but she’s pretty fluent, and sounds natural too. And you know, did you see the English dictionary Inaba-senpai uses? She’s had it for several years. It’s all torn up from so much use. She must look up words all the time.”

A dictionary so worn out? How much effort was Inaba putting into this? Could someone like her really be so diligent?

I looked over at Inaba’s dictionary again. It was an old, faded English dictionary, its pages worn and bent from constant use. And just like that, jealousy started to bubble up inside me.

She had worn that thing down that much?

I couldn’t help myself; I had to ask.

“Inaba-senpai, what happened to your dictionary?”

"Oh, I've had it for about… seven years now," she replied nonchalantly. "It’s probably time to replace it, but... I haven't got around to it yet."

“Wait, you’re going to replace it? Why, it still works fine, right?”

"Well, yes," she said with a shrug. "You see, language keeps evolving, and new words pop up all the time. So, it makes sense to get a newer dictionary to keep up."

For a moment, I felt embarrassed that my own dictionary was still in perfect condition. It was practically brand new, which obviously meant one thing: I hadn’t used it at all.

“So, which dictionary are you going to buy next?”

"I haven’t decided yet," she replied thoughtfully, "but I think I’d like something more portable. You know, something I can carry around easily."

Portable? My Webster’s dictionary was so heavy, there was no way I could take it anywhere.

But even looking at her worn-out dictionary, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

She was using a British English dictionary.

That meant, Inaba-senpai’s English must be wrong. British English is a wrong language.

I told myself that.

Somehow, I had to prove that her English was inferior to mine.

There was no way someone who used British English could be on top.

My English was the best.

No one could beat me.

And someone like Inaba, who used British English, wasn’t even worth comparing to me. I had to be way ahead of her.

At the first-year speech contest, Yuumi-chan ended up winning.

Her topic was about the United Nations.

I still couldn’t figure out what made her speech better than mine. Honestly, I didn’t even care about the United Nations. I didn’t understand what role it played in the world, and to me, it was just another boring topic.

The judges’ feedback was, “Choose a more original topic next time.” I couldn’t believe it. I’d tackled one of Japan’s most pressing issues—U.S.-Japan relations—and they said it lacked originality?

I’d heard that one of the judges had gone to a British school in Europe, so maybe there was some favoritism and vias going on.

I had always thought American English was the real deal, so being in a place like this just made me feel uncomfortable.

A few days later, I was standing in front of the magazine shelves in the library, browsing through Newsweek, which my teacher had recommended I read since high school. I flipped through the pages.

And then, I spotted Inaba behind the shelf.

She was reading an English magazine? Well, now we were on the same level. I bet I knew exactly what she was reading.

I walked over and greeted her.

Inaba was holding The Economist open in her hands.

Wait a minute, wasn’t The Economist a magazine for adults, like businessmen or people who worked in offices?

"Inaba-senpai, why are you reading this magazine?"

"Oh, gosh, you scared me!" she exclaimed, dropping the magazine, looking flustered.

"Sorry... I was just wondering why you're reading this magazine," I said, pretending to be casual.

"Ah, this one… it covers politics and economics all at once, so I can get the gist of it. But I don’t read the whole thing. I just skim through the parts I’m interested in, and if there’s a feature article I like, I’ll make a copy and study it properly later."

Skim through it?

I could barely make it through the main article in Newsweek, and here she was, skimming through a magazine?

Feeling frustrated, I decided to pick up The Times, figuring it would be a good counter to The Economist.

But that wasn’t all.

One day, while I was reading The Times in the library, Inaba passed by the shelf and quickly walked down the hallway.

She wasn’t reading magazine today? I peeked over and saw her sit at a desk with foreign newspapers—Le Figaro from France, The New York Times from the U.S.

Inaba opened The Times and started scanning through it rapidly. A little while later, she got up and began making copies of something.

My jealousy was nearly overflowing.

I’d never even noticed the foreign newspapers in the library. I’d picked them up The Japan Times once or twice at a kiosk, but I could never get through them.

"Inaba-senpai, what are you reading?"

"Oh, hello there! I’m just reading about the current mess going on with the European Union,"

"What were you copying?"

"Oh, this? It’s the editorial. This is the one thing I make sure to do every day—copy it, then really study it,"

"Every day?!"

"Yes," she nodded earnestly. "For me, it’s about consistency. If I don’t keep up with it every day, I struggle to remember things. So, I stick with it.”
"But you were copying articles from The Economist too, right? Don’t you read those?"

"Oh, those are for the weekend. When I find a good article, I make a copy so I can read it on the train. It’s all about fitting things into your schedule."

I could feel myself getting more and more irritated. I had picked up The Japan Times before, and now Inaba was telling me she skimmed through articles and made copies from The Times? How come I never thought of that?

From that day on, I started going to the library and reading The New York Times.

Sure, there was also the Los Angeles Times, but The New York Times felt more representative of America. It was published in a big American city, so it had to be the better choice, right?

But skimming was harder than I expected. Even though I had studied difficult vocabulary in high school, the articles just weren’t sticking in my brain. I couldn’t breeze through the editorials, and that made me mad.

It frustrated me that Inaba could pick up an English newspaper, skim it, make copies, and walk out of the library all smug about it.

If I tried, I could totally read The New York Times without any trouble. I should be able to breeze through even the long feature articles, right?

I forced myself to keep reading, using the frustration as motivation.

In high school, I’d never had access to newspapers or magazines like this, but Inaba seemed to have no problem grabbing them, skimming, copying, and walking out of the library like it was no big deal.

I was determined to prove I could do it too.

But then there were the assignments and reports piling up for my first-year classes, which left no time to read newspapers or magazines.

One day, I ran into my classmate Hiroko at the library.

"Hey, Marina, have you heard about Inaba-senpai?"

"Huh? What about her?"

"She reads the Nikkei newspaper every morning on the train, and when she gets to school, she just reads through English newspapers and magazines non-stop. She’s been doing it since first year."

I felt like I’d been hit in the stomach with a hammer. So she really did read every day.

"She’s so weird, right? I heard she lived overseas, but still, reading English newspapers every day and studying the editorials like that?"

Hiroko said, "I heard her say once that if you don’t keep reading newspapers, you can’t keep up with what’s happening in the world. And since English is still a foreign language to her, she has to really study it to get better. I can’t believe she keeps it up every day."

She might have lived overseas, but she seemed to lack confidence in her language skills.

I couldn’t help but smile to myself. So, even if you live abroad, some people just can’t make it.
 
 
Ugh, summer vacation’s over, and the second semester’s already started. Great, just great. All the third-year seniors have basically retired from the club, but you know what? Some of them still come to practice, like they’re some kind of saint or something. Except for Inaba, of course. She hasn’t shown her face once. Not once!
 
I mean, seriously, who does she think she is? She’s so cold, so distant. All the other seniors have been so nice about showing up and helping out, but Inaba? Nope. She just vanished, like she couldn’t be bothered.
 
I had to let my sarcasm show. I couldn’t keep it in anymore.
 
"Inaba-senpai is so cold, isn’t she? She hasn’t even bothered to show up to the club lately... Meanwhile, the other seniors are here all the time, checking in on us," I said, trying to sound all casual, but with a little bite, you know?
 
The group around me started buzzing. I could feel the tension in the air as someone leaned in and whispered, "Oh, you didn’t know? Inaba-senpai’s going abroad to study. She’s been busy with that. It’s a big deal for her right now."
 
Wait—what?! She’s going to studying abroad? She's in her third year, and now she’s taking off? No way!
 
"Yeah," they went on, "When she was in her second year, she couldn’t get into her first-choice school because of the competition. But this time, she re-applied and passed the study abroad interview. She’s going to Australia in the middle of her fourth year."
 
Australia? Oh, no. That’s it. I was done. That was the final straw. I could feel the rage bubbling up inside me.
 
What kind of ridiculous thing is that? A former expat—someone who’s already had it easy, living abroad, picking up English without breaking a sweat—and now they’re going to study abroad again? How unfair is that?
 
I didn’t even care what country she was talking about. I mean, I guess she learned English or whatever, but that’s nothing. She’s just showing off.
 
I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from saying it out loud.
 
She’s a former expat, for crying out loud! How is that fair? She gets the easy path through life, effortlessly picking up English, breezing through a “returnee” entrance exam to get into college, and now she’s going abroad AGAIN? No struggle, no real work involved, just smooth sailing.
 
We’ve had to kill ourselves learning English in Japan—real English, not the sort you pick up just by living in the States. All these former expats act like they’ve conquered the world just because they’ve picked up a little bit of English. It’s infuriating!
 
I can’t even stand watching the former expats celebrities on TV. It’s the same thing every time. They show up on all these talk shows, acting all smug, translating for everyone, talking about how “amazing” their overseas experiences were.
 
It makes me sick to my stomach.
 
And the worst part? The general public eats it up. They all think these returnee types are so "cool", so “fashionable,” so “cultured,” just because they spent a few years in America.
 
They’ve barely even worked for it, and yet, they stand there lecturing us about America, about Japan, about life, like they know everything. They haven’t had to struggle for anything. It’s all just been handed to them on a silver platter.
 
They just get to prance around, talking about their privileged overseas experiences, and we’re the ones left behind, grinding it out.
 
And now this—Inaba. She gets to live abroad, she gets to breeze through life, and now she’s going back for more? This is so unfair. It’s like a joke.
 
But... then I thought about it. You know, the real kick in the gut? The fact that even though I hated everything about them, I couldn’t help but feel jealous.
 
I mean, I know about America. I’ve studied English. I love America, I really do. More than anyone else probably. I understand it. I get it.
 
But here I am, stuck, and they’re just out there flaunting it. All those former expatss... they get to talk about it all so casually. They get all the attention. They have everything I want.
 
And I just have to sit here, trying not to explode with frustration. But hey, at least I can tell myself that I didn’t take the easy road. That’s something, right? Something they’ll never understand.
 
 
 
 
I spotted Inaba in front of the library one day. And I just couldn't help myself. My feet carried me straight over to her, and before I knew it, I was right in front of her, my voice already out there without thinking.
 
"Inaba-senpai, are you studying abroad?" I asked, a little too sharply, but I didn’t care.
 
She blinked, slightly surprised. "Oh? Has someone told you? Yes, that's right. I’ll be staying an extra year at university. I have this opportunity to study abroad, and I thought, why not? I don’t want to regret not taking it."
 
“Wait, but you were in New Zealand before, weren’t you?" I pressed, trying to get her to admit it.
 
"Well, yes, but...?" She looked at me, as if she didn’t quite understand where I was going with this.
 
"And you picked up English there, right?"
 
She shrugged, a nonchalant smile tugging at her lips. "Hmm, I guess. It’s not as impressive as you think though."
 
"And your family took you there, right?" I was almost accusing now, my tone sharp as a tack.
 
"Well, it was my parents' work transfer, so it wasn’t exactly my decision. It’s just how things worked out."
 
"But… that means you're a returnee, right?" I was practically biting out the words.
 
"Well, yes, my entrance exams were under the returnee category, but that’s all."
 
I felt my blood pressure rise. This was just too much.
 
"That’s so unfair! You're a cheat! The returnee entrance exams are way easier than the normal ones, right? And you already speak English, and now you’re going to study abroad again? Are you serious?"
 
I could feel the rage bubbling up inside me. "I wanted to be a returnee too! I wanted the easy life. Living abroad, going to a local school, learning English without breaking a sweat. Just waltzing into college with some easy exam, and then bragging about it. Like it’s no big deal."
 
Before I could even get another word out, Inaba-senpai suddenly switched gears. She just snapped, speaking loudly in English, her voice sharp and cutting through the air.
 
"Look. If you're jealous, blame it on your parents for your upbringing. They’re the ones who are responsible for it. They’re the ones who didn’t take you abroad. And remember, I’m not responsible for your upbringing, and don’t you dare think that I am responsible for your life! Just go home and accuse your own family for what you didn’t get!"
 
She turned on her heel and disappeared into the library, leaving me standing there, speechless.
 
I only caught about half of what she said, but I got the gist of it. She was saying that I should be blaming my family for everything.
 
The whole family situation. Yeah, that never crossed my mind.
 
I had always thought that being a former expats was some kind of ticket to an easy life—going to America, learning English without struggling, coming back and breezing through exams, getting into a good university without breaking a sweat. That was the dream, right?
 
But then, she had to throw in the whole family transfer thing, and suddenly, I didn’t know what to say.
 
I mean, of course, I’d never even thought of that. The idea that a family’s job could change everything, that it wasn’t just about luck or privilege. I just thought former expats had it made, and that’s how I’d always seen it.
 
But now, with her words sinking in, I couldn’t stop thinking: It’s my parents’ fault. They never took me abroad. If they had, maybe I could have grown up in America, had an American passport, maybe even had a shot at an easier life.
 
But the reality was, my parents hadn’t given me that chance. They didn’t even offer it to me.
 
I should be mad at them, right?
 
But here’s the thing—I couldn’t do it. I loved my parents too much. I couldn’t blame them for something like that.
 
 
 
 
Soon enough, my competitive streak kicked in. If Inaba could go abroad in her fourth year, then I—I—was going to do it in my third year. I’d make sure of it. I needed to talk to my parents, of course, but surely there had to be a university with a strong linguistics program somewhere that would accept me.
 
From that day forward, I spent every free moment locked in the university’s international office, researching American colleges, one by one.
 
I had my sights set on a prestigious university on the West Coast, one of the best in the world. There was no way it wouldn’t surpass some unknown Australian university. I’d show them all.
 
I hated to admit it, but I was going to have to give up on becoming the leader of the speech group. The truth was, I should have been the one to shape the group, to train everyone’s English and lead them to victory in the university speech competition, to secure the top three spots—a feat no senior had ever managed. That was supposed to be my triumph.
 
But right now, studying abroad at a world-renowned American university had become my number one priority. It was a chance I couldn’t pass up.
 
The study abroad interview came and went, and I passed with flying colours. I was officially on my way to America.
 
There was another reason I’d chosen America—one of my classmates from the same club had family living near the university. Knowing someone in the area made everything feel a little less intimidating.
 
That summer, I flew out on United Airlines, my excitement bubbling over.
 
The moment the plane took off, I could already feel the American atmosphere surrounding me. The air felt different, the food tasted different—every little thing seemed so new. I ate every last morsel of my meal, not wanting to leave a single bite behind. I couldn’t help myself; I was absorbing it all into my very being. By the time I finished, I felt like I was becoming American, like I’d been born into this life.
 
Finally, the life I’d only dreamed of was becoming a reality. America. My America.
 
When I stepped into the airport, the very air felt like it was infused with American energy. The Stars and Stripes waved proudly outside the window, and I could hardly contain my excitement.
 
The university was just a short bus ride from the airport. And when I saw it—the sprawling campus under a brilliant blue sky, the white buildings scattered across the grounds—I couldn’t believe it. This was it. This was where I was meant to be. American students and professors I’d seen countless times on TV were walking around, greeting me with cheerful "Hi"s.
 
I’d finally found my place. Finally, I was where I was supposed to be.
 
I was fully prepared, so there was absolutely no concern about language barriers. I quickly made plenty of friends with other Japanese students, and immersed myself in the American lifestyle I’d always admired.
 
I’d start my mornings with a refreshing jog, followed by a mineral-packed bottle of Contrex. Junk food? Only a small taste here and there. I was living the very best, cutting-edge, healthy American lifestyle that had always been the pinnacle of my dreams.
 
The West Coast, with its organic, health-conscious cuisine, made me feel like I was a part of the elite. I was eating the same foods that supermodels and CEOs swore by. I felt so proud to be living right in the heart of it all. When I went grocery shopping, it was to stores that carried the finest organic products.
 
Being at such a renowned school meant I was surrounded by exceptional people from all over the world. We’d occasionally head out to seafood restaurants by the ocean, spending hours discussing everything from communication to culture.
 
For the first time, I felt like I was truly living the life I was meant to lead.
 
 
 
 
Weekends were sometimes spent at the house of a classmate who lived nearby. I’d be invited over for family meals or to stay the night. Her family had been living in America for five years, and she’d graduated from high school there.
 
Her younger brothers went to a local elementary school, and inside their house, everyone spoke English. I could barely suppress a wave of jealousy. I mean, couldn’t I have lived in America with my family, too? If only I had siblings, maybe I would have grown up here, speaking English like they did.
 
But then, just as quickly, I shifted to superiority. After all, I was studying at one of the most prestigious universities in America. What were those kids doing? They were barely at the level of elementary school education. That was so far beneath me.
 
A college-level education in the United States was what truly mattered. Even if they went back to Japan and became former expats, they'd be stuck with a low-level education. They’d never get to experience the high-level university education I was getting. They’d probably have to kneel before me when they realized just how much more advanced my education was.
 
During university breaks, I traveled across America to expand my horizons.
 
Over winter break, I visited Las Vegas and New York, where I immersed myself in the world’s best entertainment. The grand shows in Vegas, the Broadway musicals—honestly, it was impossible not to be swept up in it all. I didn’t want to leave. I knew, deep down, that I’d come back here, someday. The experience was just too good to forget.
 
Then, over spring break, I explored the South—New Orleans, Alabama. I felt like I was stepping back in time, experiencing the old America I’d read about in books like The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, and saw in films like Gone with the Wind. It felt almost like I was reliving my own childhood, but in a very different, nostalgic way.
 
When my study abroad period ended, I spent another week visiting historic cities on the East Coast—Miami, New England. Every place I visited was like stepping into the scenes I’d seen on TV and in movies. It was so surreal, I honestly felt like an American. No exaggeration, it was like I had become one of them.
 
A year goes by so fast. I hated the idea of going back to Japan. But I knew I’d be back—this country would always call me back. I boarded the plane for Japan with a promise to myself. I still had one last year of university to finish.
 
 
 
 
 
Living in America for a year had finally put me on the same level as all those smug returnees. You know, the ones who always acted like they were somehow better because they’d spent time abroad. Now, I could look them straight in the eye. Even Inaba-san, the one who used to look down on me, had no more upper hand.
 
I mean, you can't really call yourself a rformer expats unless you've actually lived there, right? You need to experience the real deal to back it up.
 
And I did. I spent a whole year living in the U.S. I went to school there, I mingled with people from all over, and I talked to them—in English, no less. I mean, how many of those so-called returnees can say that?
 
So, now what? Now, I’m totally on equal footing with anyone who's been through that whole “foreign exchange” thing. No more being looked down on. This time, I’ve got the same credentials as any of them.
 
 
 
 
I had my sights set on landing a job in America, so by the fall of my junior year, I was already diving into the job hunt. But let me tell you, it was a nightmare. American companies? They want experience. And since I hadn’t done any volunteering or internships while I was studying abroad, I couldn’t even get my foot in the door for an interview.
 
I was so frustrated. So, I switched gears and decided to focus on American companies that were setting up shop in Japan.
 
This was the internet age, after all. American companies were storming into Japan, and the number of PC-related companies was growing. Japan was totally trailing behind in this area. I mean, my background in linguistics and English was perfect for this. I was going to work for an American tech company. No question about it—I was determined.
 
I ended up getting a few interviews, and finally, I landed an offer from one of the top IT firms in the States. America was starting to feel a lot more real now. All I had to do was wait for a transfer opportunity within the company.
 
Then, senior year rolled around, and I finished writing my thesis. All that was left was to graduate with honors.
 
The day of graduation came, and I wore the beautiful furisode hakama my parents had gotten for me. As I sat with my friends in the auditorium waiting for the ceremony to start, I heard that the top student in our department was going to give the commencement speech.
 
Wait, what? The Honour student?
 
Wasn’t I supposed to be the Honour student?
 
Was there someone else in the department who had better grades than me?
 
I studied at one of the world’s top American universities, and now someone was going to beat me out?
 
The ceremony began, and after the president’s farewell speech, the so-called top student stepped up to give the address. Two students I’d never even seen before, a guy and a girl, stood up to speak. Watching them read their speeches in front of a packed auditorium, I could literally feel the jealousy boiling inside me.
 
There were students who had better grades than me? And they were up there giving a speech in front of everyone?
 
It stung. It burned. I wanted to be up there. Instead, I was stuck in the crowd, listening to the speech with all the other "regular" students.
 
But you know what? I was going to beat this. Maybe I didn’t make it this time, but I’d go to grad school and graduate with the best grades, just you wait. I’d show everyone who thought they were better than me.
 
 
 
 
 
I started my first year in the real world, still fuming from that graduation day. The boring, low-level job assignments from my senior colleagues barely registered in my mind as I slowly sank deeper into the world of IT.
 
The thing is, I knew I could learn it faster on my own. I didn’t need some old-timer showing me the ropes. I was a linguistics expert who’d studied at one of the top universities in the U.S. I was better than these people. The idea that some senior could actually teach me anything was ridiculous.
 
All I cared about was getting back to America. I was going to outshine everyone, nail this job, and get a transfer to the States. That was where I belonged. America was my home now, and I was going back—no one was stopping me.
 
By the second year, they finally sent me on an overseas business trip, and I was flying all over the place.
 
Mostly to developing countries, which, sure, wasn’t exactly America, but whatever. At least it was something. And let me tell you, everywhere I went, the local staff treated me like royalty. They’d greet me at the office, all smiles, and after work, they’d take me sightseeing.
 
Taj Mahal in India? Stunning. Petra in Jordan? Breathtaking. The floating markets in Vietnam? Totally mesmerizing. I was so caught up in the beauty of these places, I almost forgot about the job for a minute. Almost.
 
Then came the alumni reunion. I finally got to see my old friends again, and I was all set for a good time... until I heard something that made my blood run cold.
 
“Hey, do you remember Inaba-senpai?”
 
“Yeah, I remember her…”
 
“She’s in England now, you know? Apparently, her company transferred her there.”
 
And that was it. The moment those words hit my ears, my blood surged and my heart dropped. She’s in England? No way. That smug, arrogant senior who used to fumble through English in the library? And now she’s working overseas?
 
I hadn’t even gotten a transfer yet, and she was already there? Unbelievable.
 
The next day, I marched straight into my boss’s office and told him, again, that I wanted an overseas assignment. I couldn’t stay in Japan any longer. To move up in this company, I needed to be in America. It was the only way forward. And I would wait, no matter how long it took. I was going to get there.
 
 
 
 
 
Finally, after three years, the moment I’d been waiting for arrived.
 
A transfer to the IT holy land—Silicon Valley, the headquarters. It was only a one-year contract, but I jumped at the chance. This was my big break. With this, I’d be on par with Inaba-senpai. No, scratch that—I’d be better. I was going to be in the heart of IT, the real deal, while she was just stuck in England. Big difference. Huge difference.
 
And so, I kicked off round two of my American life. This time, I wasn’t just getting by. I rented a huge, fancy apartment that cost way more than my salary could cover. But hey, who cares? I was living the dream now. Every weekend, I threw these wild parties, inviting colleagues and making sure everyone had a blast.
 
Barbecues? Totally my thing. Thick T-bone steaks, baked potatoes, and don’t even get me started on the wine—Napa Valley stuff, plus some bourbon, just to keep things interesting. I made sure every single person had a drink in hand. My balcony? Yeah, I had enough room for 20 people, and they were there every weekend.
 
Rainy Saturdays? No problem. I’d head out to the outlets around Silicon Valley, stock up on brand-name clothes, accessories, and cosmetics. I spent money like there was no tomorrow, using up the savings from the past three years. I was soaking up every bit of this fantastic American life, and it felt amazing.
 
Before I knew it, my year was up, and it was time to go back to Japan. But, as usual, something got under my skin.
 
Apparently, Inaba-senpai was still in England.
 
“Did you hear? Inaba-senpai got a transfer after just two years. She’s been promoted to section chief now, and I think she’s been in England for about five years.”
 
That was it. I was done. I had to take this further. If Inaba-senpai could go overseas on a transfer, then I’d move to America, even if I had to change jobs.
 
It wasn’t the same as a simple transfer. This was about immigrating—making a life there. The challenges were going to be bigger, sure, but I was ready to face them. I’d show Inaba-senpai that my experience was going to be way more impressive than hers.
 
So, I applied to the American branch of my company. And guess what? They accepted me. They recognized my three years of experience in Japan, and I was offered a three-year contract. After that, depending on performance, there was the chance to extend.
 
Just the thought of going back to Silicon Valley again—it gave me chills. I could practically feel the excitement buzzing through my veins. This was my time.
 
 
 
 
Silicon Valley, huh? That was where my new office was located. A sprawling factory complex with lush green lawns surrounding it. There were plenty of parking spaces for employees, all neat and orderly. And of course, I was already imagining myself above it all. I was in America, after all.
 
With the little savings I had left, I rented a car. I didn’t just drive to work—I rolled up in style. I perched my Balenciaga sunglasses on my forehead like it was nothing, because, hello, this is America. If the sun’s out, sunglasses are mandatory. And wearing them on your forehead? Well, that’s just part of the look, right?
 
My job? Well, at first it sounded pretty simple—handling PC orders from Japan, and dealing with customer complaints in Japanese. Sure, it was supposed to be a position for local hires, but guess what? They gave it to me instead. I was in the driver’s seat now, pushing out the locals, getting the job done better than anyone else. Oh, how sweet it was. The fact that I was better than the Japanese people living here in America? Yeah, that was pretty much the cherry on top.
 
But, of course, reality came crashing down. I was not getting the cool PC orders. Instead, I was stuck answering complaints from Japanese companies. And get this, most of those complaints came from arrogant customers with terrible attitudes. All I did was apologize, day in and day out. My job was basically to say “sorry” in Japanese, while the locals got to deal with actual work.
 
And the worst part? Even though I was physically in America, I was still stuck in this weird cycle of speaking Japanese and dealing with nothing but complaints. I couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t what I signed up for.
 
So, naturally, I marched into my boss’s office. I told him that I couldn’t accept the position anymore. I’d studied computer functionality in Japan, so why was I being stuck in this complaint department? I demanded a change. At the very least, could I get the position that was originally promised to me?
 
Then, one day, an envelope arrived at my apartment. I opened it up, and my stomach dropped.
 
A termination notice.
 
It said I was fired immediately, but they’d transfer my wages up until that day.
 
I was shocked. I didn’t know what to do, but I knew one thing—I needed to find a job. Fast. The only problem? My work visa had expired, and without it, getting a job wasn’t going to be easy. And to make matters worse? I had no savings left. Zero.
 
With a sinking heart, I packed up my things and left the country, after barely a year. I headed back to Japan, defeated. The company I used to work for wasn’t hiring, so I had to settle for another company in the same industry.
 
Here, I found myself on the road again, traveling all over the Middle East and Asia for business trips, promoting and selling PCs. It was like déjà vu—same old, same old. Just like my last job, I got to enjoy the “business trip” lifestyle, with local staff showing me around famous tourist spots and letting me indulge in the best local food.
 
And now? My English was basically flawless. Everywhere I went, people would ask me, “How come you speak English ?” And I’d smile, thinking, Of course they ask me that. I'm me, after all. When you’re as capable as I am, you just have to deal with people being impressed by your skills. It's only natural. I mean, who wouldn’t be impressed?

 
 
 
After I returned to Japan, my connection with my old college friends deepened once again. But what I heard? Ugh. It wasn’t just frustrating—it was enough to make my brain boil with rage.
 
Inaba-senpai was still living in the UK. And now, get this: she had a partner, and the two of them bought a house in London. Oh, and to top it off, she was living with a high school classmate from New Zealand.
 
What kind of nonsense was that? My high school had zero foreign classmates, so how in the world was Inaba-senpai living with someone from another country?
 
I worked so hard, and yet I couldn’t even stay in America. And this girl, who was nothing special, was living it up in the UK?
 
One of my classmates casually mentioned, “I was in the UK recently and met up with Inaba-senpai. She told me she originally wanted to work in New Zealand or Australia, but ended up getting a job in the UK. After two years, she became a local hire. And get this—she bumped into a classmate there, and they started dating. They might even get engaged soon.”
 
I couldn’t even move when I heard that. My legs literally started shaking from the jealousy.
 
I hadn’t even dated a foreigner yet. And here was Inaba-senpai, already living with one and possibly getting married!
 
I was fuming. If she could be with a foreigner, then I’d one-up her. I was going to marry an American. Oh, yeah. A white, American. That would definitely show her.
 
Jealousy? It’s a hell of a motivator. And I wasn’t stopping until I knocked her down.
 
I told myself I was going to do it. I was going to marry an American, the best of the best, and then Inaba-senpai would have to bow down to me.
 
And don’t get me started on returnees. The way they get away with everything is infuriating. They go overseas when they’re little, learn English like it’s nothing, live this carefree, luxurious life, and then come back to Japan flaunting their English. They think they’re all that, but really? They’re nothing but shameless non-patriots.
 
And yet, for all my bitterness, deep down, I knew something. If I ever had a child, I’d make sure they grew up overseas too. They’d speak perfect American English, attend American schools, and be surrounded by American culture. My child would return to Japan with a perfect bilingual skill set, and eventually, they’d attend a top-tier American university.
 
And that’s not all. My future kids would live in America, and they’d marry Americans too. And when it’s time for grandkids? Oh, you bet they’d be half-Japanese, half-American. I'd teach them Japanese and Japanese culture, then send them off to a prestigious Japanese university for their studies.
 
Whoever I marry will have to be someone who will be stationed overseas. Long-term in America. That’s non-negotiable.
 
My next dream? My family and I heading off to America. If I had my way, I’d even give birth there. That way, my kid would automatically be a U.S. citizen.
 
Once I set my mind to something, it was over. I was going to do whatever it took to surpass Inaba-senpai. Whatever it took.
 
 
 
Luckily, I knew a few people at work who had connections with Americans, and through one of them, I got introduced to a sports club where Americans living in Japan went. Rumor had it that this club was the perfect place for wealthy American singles to find a spouse.
 
With what little savings I had, I forked out a ton of money to become a member and spent every weekend at the pool and gym, scoping out future husband material.
 
If I was going to marry an American, it had to be a white one.
 
Sure, they call America a "melting pot" and all, but if I was going to live there, it was going to be with a white man. White people have it better than minorities in every way. And, when I had kids, I wanted them to be blonde with blue eyes. So, every weekend, I made sure to size up all the guys at the club with that goal in mind.
 
Then, the moment arrived when I least expected it.
 
He was there—an American with rich, golden hair, the color of sun-kissed wheat. He was about average height, but that didn’t matter. The moment I saw him at the gym, working out on the same machine, I found myself drawn to him like a magnet.
 
He noticed me and smiled. A huge grin.
 
"Hey, how’s it going?"
 
And when I looked into his eyes—blue, greenish-blue, sparkling like the ocean—I knew. Right then, I knew.
 
This was the man I was going to marry.
 
I threw myself into the conversation, gave him my number, and after that, I practically stalked him. I called him every day, invited him out, monopolized his time. I was all over him. Sure, he was a bit shorter than I’d hoped, but I could care less. This guy was everything I’d dreamed of.
 
His name was Jake Springfield. He was from Minnesota, super smart, went to a top West Coast college, and now he worked at one of the most prestigious consulting firms in the world.
 
This was the kind of man I’d been waiting for. He had the education, the career, everything. Just like me. I studied abroad at a world-renowned university too. There’s no way a couple could work if they weren’t evenly matched.
 
Once I had him, there was no letting go. I used every bit of the knowledge I’d gained in America to keep him focused on me. By the next year, we were engaged.
 
Jake loved Japan, and he wanted to stay here. He’d picked up Japanese, and his Japanese clients were growing. He said he wanted to keep working here, and honestly, I thought that was great. But it wasn't enough.
 
Inaba-senpai had found a partner and settled overseas. I couldn’t let her win. No way.
 
To top her, Jake and I needed to leave Japan, live in America. We needed to buy a house, get a green card, and have kids faster than she did. More than anything, our kids had to be American citizens.
 
Jake’s consulting experience could easily transfer to the States. I continued to convince him, talking about his aging parents and how it would be better for our kids to grow up in America. Finally, he agreed.
 
We’d raise our kids in the U.S., and they’d have American citizenship. They’d graduate from an American school, go to a top U.S. university, and we’d be on track to have them lead the kind of life that I had always dreamed about.
 
So, we rushed through a wedding and hopped on a plane, bound for New York—the city where Jake would continue his consulting career. It was the perfect place for both of us. I could focus on raising our kids, and Jake’s parents were just a quick flight away in Minnesota.
 
The plan was set. Everything was falling into place. And with my new life ahead of me, nothing—and no one—was going to stop me.
 
 
 
 
Jake, being the ambitious, talented guy he was, quickly started to rise through the ranks at his consulting firm. Before long, he was at the top. And, just around that time, we had our first child, a daughter.
 
She had golden blonde hair and blue eyes, just like her dad. But there was one thing that bugged me—her narrow, slanted Asian eyes and small, flat nose, which she obviously got from me. I was worried that people wouldn’t see her as American. I panicked and started begging Jake for a second and third child. Maybe one of them would look more "American."
 
Raising bilingual kids? That was the key. I insisted that Jake only speak Japanese at home, and I had my parents send over a ton of Japanese-language DVDs for children.
 
At home, it was like a tiny Japan. Japanese TV shows, Japanese radio—it was all part of my plan. I was going to raise my daughter Naomi with Japanese first. I read her Japanese picture books every night, and we watched those precious educational DVDs sent from Japan. I blasted her with Japanese from the moment she could hear, reading Kaguya-hime and then Momotaro, just like my parents did for me when I was little.
 
But outside the house? That’s where the real English learning started. We’d go for walks, and everywhere we went—at the park, the cafe, the market—people would smile and talk to Naomi in English. Jake and I did our best to speak to her in English too. We wanted Naomi to pick it up naturally from the local Americans around us.
 
At first, everything seemed perfect. But then, something strange happened. Naomi started to squirm and make faces when we read her Japanese books. She’d close her eyes, pout, and twist her body, as if she was trying to escape. Was it the pictures? Was the Kaguya-hime book not pretty enough? I replaced it with a different, more beautiful version, but she did the same thing again.
 
Bilingual education means constant exposure to two languages. I knew that because I grew up watching English videos and became bilingual. If I could do it, Naomi could too. But every time Naomi rejected a Japanese book, it got under my skin.
 
One day, after watching a Japanese DVD, Naomi started crying, and I just lost it. I slapped her hard on the bottom. What was wrong with her? She had all the resources, all the opportunities for bilingual education—why was she rejecting it? When I was her age, I would’ve devoured American TV shows and movies.
 
Later, when Jake came home, I vented to him about how frustrating it was. He just smiled and said, “You’re tired. I’ll do the bedtime stories from now on. You can take a break.”
 
His offer was a relief. Jake was as fluent in Japanese as a native speaker, so I was more than happy to let him take over.
 
I piled up the Japanese books in Naomi’s room and asked Jake to read whatever he wanted. Maybe he would have better luck.
 
 
Two years later, my second daughter was born. She had dark, thick, straight hair just like mine, and her eyes were a deep brown, just like mine too. The shape of her eyes was narrow and slanted, and her nose was small and flat—just like mine. Jake was thrilled, but I wasn’t happy. I wanted a white child, damn it. A kid with Asian features would never fit in with the high society crowd in America.
 
Then, I heard through the grapevine that Senior Inaba had also had a baby. She’d had hers a few years later than I did, and her partner was half-Japanese. The baby was three-quarters Japanese, they said.
 
I didn't even care. The more American blood the kid had, the better, in my book.
 
So what if her kid was part Kiwi, mostly Japanese? My first daughter had blonde hair and blue eyes.
 
Besides, I gave birth first. That was another win for me.
 
I won.
 
It took some time, but I beat Inaba. This wasn’t even a competition anymore. She was no longer a threat.
 
I couldn’t help it—I wanted to shout it to the sky, I was so happy. I had outdone her. She was officially not a rival.
 
Bilingual education continued even after my second daughter, Erika, was born. I made sure we stuck to the strict rule: Japanese at home, English outside.
 
There weren’t any babysitters nearby who could speak Japanese, so Jake and I couldn’t go out much. I couldn’t have any babysitter using English in the house—it would mess with the kids' language development.
 
The only exception was American kids' TV shows. I was obsessed with them when I was a kid, so I let my daughters watch those. Shows with costumes and puppets chatting away. I had no idea what they were saying half the time, but I wanted my girls to have the same experience I did, watching those shows growing up.
 
By the time the girls were three, I enrolled them in a nearby preschool. It was a melting pot of different races, but it was in an upscale neighborhood in New York, and a lot of wealthy families sent their kids there. It was the perfect place to build future connections. If we played our cards right, my daughters could make friends with kids who came from high society families.
 
I was all in. I worked hard at making friends with the other mothers, speaking in perfect native English, and I joined every playdate I could.
 
Just like I expected, the kids at that preschool were from rich families. They invited my daughters to their fancy high-rise apartments and homes in the suburbs, and my girls would come back with all these new American experiences.
 
When I invited the other kids over to our house, I made sure my daughters used Japanese properly. “These girls are bilingual. They speak more than just English, unlike you, right? You don't have a second language at home.” I felt this quiet sense of superiority as I watched the playdates unfold. Each one was a reminder of how superior my daughters were, and I couldn’t help but feel like I was winning—again.
 
 
 
Two years later, I had my third child, and finally, I could give birth to a kid who looked American—someone who could stand toe-to-toe with the best of them.
 
She had the golden, shining hair just like my husband’s, and the transparent blue eyes that resembled his parents’.
 
Out of all my three daughters, her face looked the most like my husband’s, and I could finally say, with some relief, that this was the child I had been waiting for.
 
My third daughter, Karen, was born, but even with her arrival, our bilingual education continued.
 
I was determined—my kids were going to grow up perfect bilingual, and we’d eventually return to Japan, where they’d go to the most prestigious American school in Tokyo. Early education was essential; it was all part of the plan.
 
I became even more strict with my two older daughters, enforcing the rule of "Japanese at home, English outside" to a level that was stricter than before. With my husband's native-level Japanese, I could create a truly bilingual environment at home for the girls.
 
But as they got older, problems started to arise.
 
Once my older two daughters began preschool, they stopped speaking Japanese at home.
 
My husband, always busy with work, couldn’t pay as much attention to them as I would have liked, and honestly, my English wasn’t good enough for me to be a proper authority figure in their upbringing. Though I still tried to speak to them in Japanese at home, their conversations with each other were in English. And I couldn’t even understand what they were saying! Their English was so smooth—so much better than mine.
 
I had set up this whole bilingual thing with my husband, and I thought I’d nailed it. But here I was, failing so soon.
 
I didn’t give up, though. I enrolled the girls in a Japanese preschool in New York—one where they could learn Japanese language and math on the weekends. I thought it would help them make friends with other Japanese kids, but both of them were totally uninterested. I had to sit through the humiliating comment from the teacher: "It might be a bit difficult for your daughters."
 
But nothing prepared me for what happened next.
 
One day, I was at a health food market in downtown New York with my kids, and I saw a couple that caught my attention.
 
It was Saki Inaba.
 
She still had the signature thick, black Asian hair, and standing next to her was a tall man with curly brown hair and a little kid who had brown hair, too.
 
Her partner was clearly not Asian. I was sure I had misunderstood something. I thought I heard he was a half Japanese, half Kiwi. But this man had brown curly hair, blue eyes, and translucent white skin – no trace of Asian look. The kid looked just like him—nothing like Inaba senpai.
 
I walked over to Inaba without thinking.
 
"Inaba-senpai," I called out.
 
She looked surprised, so surprised, in fact, that she dropped the pumpkin she was holding.
 
"Uh…?"
 
"It’s Serizawa. Marika Serizawa."
 
"Ah, wait, could it be... you were in that university club with me, weren’t you?"
 
Then her partner jumped in, speaking in flawless Japanese.
 
"Who’s this? Do you know her?"
 
"Yes, we were in the same club back at university,"
 
"Well, well, what a coincidence! To run into you here! Are you living in New York now? Is that your child with you?" He smiled, glancing at my daughters.
 
Her partner spoke perfect Japanese, but his looks—he didn’t resemble any Japanese person I had ever seen.
 
"It’s been, what, over ten years since we last saw each other?" I said.

 

"You’ve been here in New York all this time, then?" Saki asked.
 
"Yeah, six years now."
 
"Six years?! That’s impressive! You must know this place like the back of your hand. We just arrived yesterday, in fact—tourists, you know."
 
"I heard you married a New Zealander. I got married because I heard you were married. My husband’s a pure-blooded white American. Way better than the half-Japanese husband and three-quarter Japanese kid you’re raising. Bet you’re jealous, huh?"
 
"Uh…" she said, seemingly bewildered. Then both of them exchanged weird, uncomfortable glances.
 
"Well, technically, the first time we met was in New Zealand," her husband said, finally breaking the silence. "But I’m actually British. My mother’s British. And, uh... well, I definitely inherited my looks from her."
 
A weird silence hung in the air.
 
Inaba and her partner didn’t seem envious at all. If anything, her partner was trying to take the high ground. What was going on with these people?

 

It was as if time itself had frozen. The silence stretched out, thick and uncomfortable, and I could almost feel the weight of it pressing down on me. Inaba-san and her partner? They weren’t jealous of me. No, they were the ones trying to one-up me. What was this? What was going on with them? Was I supposed to just let this slide?
 
I had no choice but to continue the conversation.
 
I cleared my throat and forced a smile. "So, have you had your child recently?"
 
"Yes, he’s four now," Inaba-san said, forcing a smile. "I thought it was time to start taking him on trips. And your children—they’re so big now! My dear, How old are you?"
 
I shot a glance at Naomi, my eldest. She hated speaking Japanese, and as usual, she didn’t answer.
 
"Naomi, sweetheart, answer the nice lady," I said, a little more sharply than I’d intended.
 
But my daughter just kept her eyes on the floor. I sighed and spoke for her. "She's six. Second grade."
 
"Oh! She’s already in school!" Inaba-senpai smiled, then turned to the younger ones. "And your other two? How old are you now?"
 
But Erika clung to me like a lifeline, her little face pressed against my back.
 
"Erika, come on now, answer," I said, trying to coax her.
 
But there she stayed, a little ball of stubbornness, not moving an inch.
 
Inaba-san smiled broadly. "Oh, is she shy? My son is too outgoing, always talking to people. Ken, come and say hello to my friend!"
 
A little boy, who had been talking to one of the store employees, came trotting over. He looked up at me with big, bright eyes and yelled, "Konnichiwa!"
 
And that was it. That was the moment. The moment when I felt that familiar, burning knot of jealousy twist in my stomach.
 
This cheeky little boy, with his effortlessly perfect Japanese, saying “Konnichiwa!” in such a casual, natural way—it was everything I’d wanted for my own kids. And yet, despite all my work, my constant effort, my nagging, my wishing, they could barely manage a few sentences in Japanese. And here was this kid, speaking fluent Japanese, without a care in the world.
 
The shop assistant chased after him, calling out, "Hey, you forgot this!"
 
The boy held up a small, brown teddy bear and smiled brightly. "Thank you! I nearly forgot him!" said in English.
 
"Don't forget your precious thing!" the assistant said with a smile.
 
"Yeah, he's my best friend!" the boy chimed in cheerfully.
 
I couldn’t take it. My eyes narrowed, and I turned my head away, trying to stop the gnawing jealousy that had bubbled up inside me. That British English. It made my skin crawl. The same British English, wrong sort in my standard, that I had always despised. It was the type of English that was looked down upon in Japan, and yet here was this kid, speaking it with zero hesitation, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I wanted to scream.
 
Trying to pull myself together, I asked, “Inaba-senpai, are you raising your child bilingually?”
 
She nodded, made weird expression. "Well, at home, we speak Japanese. Outside, we speak English. We enrolled him in preschool, and his English has gotten much better. My husband speaks Japanese at home, so most of our conversations are in Japanese."
 
Her partner chimed in, “And my parents live in the UK, so we use both languages. My mother speaks to him in English, and my dad, having lived in New Zealand, mixes both languages—sometimes it gets a bit tricky."
 
I felt my heart drop. This wasn’t just some casual chat. It was a subtle boast. They were talking about their effortless bilingualism like it was nothing. It was everything I wanted, but didn’t have.
 
"And what about your husband, Marika-san? You said he’s American, right?"
 
I tried to keep my voice steady, but I could feel the tension in my throat. "Yes, that's right. He’s been in Japan for a long time, and he speaks Japanese at a native level."
 
"That’s amazing!" Inaba-senpai said. "You must be able to speak Japanese at home then."
 
“Well, not exactly,” I said, forcing a smile. "He’s busy with work, and doesn’t have much time for the kids…"
 
"Oh, I see," she said, looking sympathetic, but her smile—oh, it felt a little too knowing. "But you have three children, right? I’m sure there will come a time when they’ll use Japanese more often."
 
I swallowed, feeling my face heat up. Why did she have to say it like that? Why did everything feel like a comparison?
 
"And what do you do, Inaba-san?" I asked, clearly trying to steer the conversation away from my awkward silence.
 
"I’m a researcher," she replied. "I worked for a British consulting firm in Japan, and after two years, they called me to the UK headquarters. Now, I handle research projects coming from Japan."
 
“And your husband?” I asked, with tone polite but insistent.
 
"I’m an interpreter," he said, with a forced smile. "I do mostly international conferences. It’s flexible, so I get time with the kids when I can."
 
I could feel my feet beginning to shake. What am I doing? I thought. Here I was, in a foreign country, with no family support, running myself ragged just trying to juggle my kids’ education, while Inaba and her partner were effortlessly balancing work, parenting, and travel. And my husband, bless his heart, was nowhere to be found when I needed him the most.
 
I had nothing. I felt like I was losing everything. All I wanted was a perfect life, just like theirs. But instead, I was stuck in the middle of this endless struggle.
 
The conversation dragged on, but I barely heard it. Finally, I made an excuse, grabbed my kids, and hurried out of the store. We didn’t buy much that day. It felt like there was no point. All I could do was think about how badly I was losing.
 
 
But as soon as I walked into the house, something felt off. Jake’s jacket was tossed carelessly on the living room sofa—like he’d just thrown it there in a hurry. And then, from the bedroom, I could hear this quiet little laugh—almost like a giggle.
 
My stomach churned as I dragged the kids up to their room. I plopped them in front of their favorite DVD, keeping them busy while I tried to collect my thoughts. Something wasn’t right. I could feel it in my bones.
 
I waited a few minutes before heading downstairs to see what was going on, and that’s when it hit me. I froze at the bottom of the stairs, my heart pounding. There they were—Jake and some woman, half-dressed and locked in a kiss. And I’m not talking about a casual peck on the cheek. No, this was the kind of kiss you give when you think no one’s around.
 
I couldn’t hold it in. “What the hell is going on here?!” I screamed.
 
They both turned to face me, and I was expecting a little bit of shock, maybe even guilt. But no. Jake looked at me like he was a little surprised I wasn’t in on whatever weird, twisted joke they were having. And the woman—she didn’t even flinch. She just stood there, all calm and collected.
 
“Well, since you’ve caught us,” Jake said, shrugging like it was no big deal, “I might as well tell you. I’m marrying her.”
 
Marrying her? My mind went blank. Was this some kind of sick joke?
 
“Excuse me?” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
 
Look, I made this decision a long time ago. I thought that, after coming all the way to America, you’d focus on continuing your career. But you’ve done nothing. Even after having a child, all you’ve done is housework and childcare. You’re not even looking for a job—instead, you’re obsessively teaching Japanese to a child who clearly doesn’t enjoy it. And all I ever hear from you are complaints.

I thought you had more backbone. But it seems like the idea of hiring a babysitter or putting our child in daycare so you could work has never even crossed your mind. Are you planning to stay a housewife in this country for the rest of your life? If something ever happens to me, you’re on your own.”
 
His words hit me like a ton of bricks.
 
“Wait a second. You think this is about Japanese?” I stammered. “I’m trying to do what’s best for my kids! You don’t understand—if I let them go to daycare or have a sitter, their Japanese will fall apart!”
 
Jake just laughed. “No, that’s the thing. Look, learning a language is something you can start anytime. I didn’t even start learning Japanese until I was 16. After graduating, I finally went to Japan, and I worked my ass off to master the language. Actually, maybe ‘master’ isn’t the right word—I approach it with humility as a foreign language and know there’s still so much more to learn.

 
My head was spinning. Was he seriously telling me that my whole focus on Japanese was the problem?
 
“And you know who else learned Japanese?” he continued, his eyes glinting with that smug look. “It's Ally, who’s here with us now. She worked hard in Japan too. She went to a Japanese university at 18, struggled at first, but eventually became proficient enough in Japanese to handle working there without any issues. Oh, and by the way, Ally was also my colleague at the consulting firm I worked for. She’s been transferred here for a while, and that’s when we got engaged.”

I didn’t even know what to say. Engaged? And now this woman, Ally, was just standing there like this was her house. Like she’d just swooped in and taken everything I’d worked for.
 
“But why?” I demanded, feeling the bitterness rise in my throat. “If you had time for her, why didn’t you spend more time with your own kids?”
 
Jake rolled his eyes. "Are you seriously asking me to support your rigid insistence on teaching Japanese? Naomi and Erika clearly hate it. You’ve been forcing it on them since they were little, pressuring them like this. Don’t you think that if they’re going to grow up in America, the first priority should be to help them build a solid foundation in English, the language they actually need?"
 
My heart dropped to my stomach. Was this really happening?

"Well, that’s because my English isn’t that great... I mean, I don’t know anything about the kind of English kids use growing up."

 

Jake cut me off. "Oh, is that what someone who majored in linguistics at one of America’s top universities would say? Forcing bilingualism on a child as young as ours, before they’re even a year old, is bound to make both languages underdeveloped.

 

I think Naomi appears shy because she entered preschool without having a strong foundation in English. At the very least, you could have used some English with her at home. But instead, you made her watch Japanese DVDs, read her Japanese books, and punished her harshly anytime she spoke even a little English.

 

At this rate, Naomi won’t fully understand either Japanese or English. And honestly, I believe her poor school performance is directly tied to this obsession with forcing Japanese on her—it’s become a burden."
 
I was shaking now, and I could feel the tears threatening to spill. “What do you want, then? You want to take them away from me? Just because I didn’t do things the way you think I should?”
 
Jake stood up, looked at Ally, and then looked back at me. "If you're okay with it, I’ll take care of the older kids. Since Karen, the youngest, doesn’t understand language yet, it might be better for you to raise her in Japan. But as for the other two, I’d like you to leave them to me and Ally."

 

I broke down in tears, sobbing uncontrollably.

 

"You’re saying you and you are going to raise my children? My children—the ones I gave birth to? And now you’re telling me you’re going to take them away from me because of some so-called language issues?"

 

"You’ve been out of the workforce for far too long. Whether you stay in America after we divorce or go back to Japan, do you really think you can raise three children on your own? Honestly, I don’t think you can.

At the very least, I’ll let you keep the youngest child, but you should feel at ease leaving the other two with me. The kids are already attached to Ally, so there’s no need to worry about their bond with a parental figure."
 
Ally chimed in, Ally finally spoke up. She wasn’t just talking to me—she was talking at me, like she had something important to say. But I already knew where this was going. I could feel the pit in my stomach, like the earth was opening up and I was about to fall into it.
 
"If they were raised by you, Naomi and Erika would end up with underdeveloped language skills, wouldn’t they, Jake? Right? When we all went out together the other day, they were sharing so much with us."” She glanced at him like she was expecting him to back her up. And, of course, he did.
 
I could feel my face flush as they both started talking. Every word felt like a stab.
 
First, they told me how Naomi and Erika had been bullied at preschool. Because of me. Because I was Japanese. They’d been picked on by the other kids. And why? Because their mom was the foreigner with the weird accent. And get this: when Naomi had brought some friends over from preschool, they had the nerve to say stuff like, “Your mom’s English is terrible. You’ve lived here for how many years and still don’t get it?”
 
I could feel my hands trembling. I knew people had looked at me like I was some kind of joke, but hearing it out loud, from them? It was like they were mocking me. Ally went on, all sweet and syrupy, but I could hear every nasty word.
 
“You know, Naomi and Erika's friends' moms, they always said how famous you are for your bad English,” Ally continued. “They said they didn’t want to hang out with a foreign mom who couldn’t even speak decent English. Like, how embarrassing is that?”
 
It felt like someone slapped me in the face with a wet towel. I didn’t even know what to say, but I could hear it all—their voices, the hurt, the judgment.
 
Then, as if that wasn’t enough, Ally dropped the bomb: “When they talk about learning a foreign language, the other kids always act like French is the only real language. They’ve been studying Latin, even. Latin—like that’s a normal thing. But Japanese? No - that’s not cool. That’s for outsiders. That’s for them.”
 
My stomach churned. I had always thought I was doing the right thing, teaching my kids something important, something real. But now... I could feel the weight of their words. Naomi and Erika were caught in the middle. How could I have been so blind?
 
“You know,” Ally continued, with that sweet-but-somehow-condescending smile, “it’s no wonder Naomi and Erika are so embarrassed when they go out with you. You try to talk to people in your broken English, and people stare at you like you're some kind of alien. And when Naomi or Erika tries to speak English, it’s like they’re being treated like royalty by their friends, right?”
 
I wanted to scream at her. How dare she? How dare she say all of this like it was my fault that I wasn’t a perfect American mom? But I couldn’t. Because, deep down, I knew she was right. I had screwed up. My kids were embarrassed of me, and there was nothing I could do to fix it.
 
Ally wasn’t finished, of course. “And when you go to those events at preschool? You just stand there, in the back, looking awkward. Like you don’t even belong. You don’t talk to anyone. When people talk to you, you just say, ‘Yes, yes, I agree with you completely.’ That’s it. You can’t even express your own opinions in English.”
 
I wanted to die. Was I really that bad? Was that what people saw when they looked at me?
 
“And you don’t participate,” Ally went on, like she was just stating facts. “Everyone thinks you don’t care. That you don’t even try. Naomi and Erika talk about it all the time. They’re embarrassed by you.”
 
That was it. I could barely breathe. Naomi and Erika, the two people I loved most in this world—they were ashamed of me. They wanted me to be different. They wanted me to be someone else.
 
And then, Ally said something that made me feel like the ground was crumbling beneath my feet.

“They don’t speak Japanese anymore. Jake's been speaking to them in English, and their first language is English now. That’s their real language now, and you’ve got to face that. I think Jake’s right. You need to let them grow up the way they need to. If you keep pushing them to speak Japanese, they’ll just end up lost, in between two worlds.”
 
I couldn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say. They were right, weren’t they? Naomi and Erika had to be raised here, in America. They needed to speak English, not some weird, foreign language that no one cared about. And Jake—he was right too. I was only holding them back.
 
So, I stood there, silent, as Ally and Jake just kept talking, going on and on about what was “best” for my kids, as if I wasn’t even in the room. 
 
Jake had betrayed me. After all the promises he made about speaking Japanese at home, now this? I couldn’t believe it. This was worse than any fight we’d ever had, and it hurt more than anything I could’ve imagined.
 
Jake kept talking, like he was trying to explain himself, but all I could hear was the betrayal in his voice.
 
“I have to say, I kind of agree with the kids,” he said, and I felt my heart drop even further. “You’ve been living in America for almost 10 years, but you’re still the same old Japanese person. You put on makeup, but you still look like an Asian. You don’t look American at all. It’s like, you don’t even fit in here, you know? You’ve been here forever, but it’s like you still haven’t adapted. And you still go around saying, ‘I’m American.’ Doesn’t that embarrass you?”
 
I felt the heat rising in my cheeks. The words hit me like a punch to the stomach. It wasn’t just what he said, it was how he said it, like he was pointing out every flaw, every reason I was never going to be enough for him.
 
“Your English is still Japanese,” he continued, his tone sharp, like he was dissecting me piece by piece. “Don’t you see it? When people say, ‘How come you speak English?’ it’s not a compliment. They’re being polite, but it’s just them being surprised. Don’t you get it?”
 
I wanted to scream at him. To tell him he was wrong, that he didn’t understand anything, but I was too angry to even form the words.
 
“Look at you,” he said, shaking his head like I was the biggest disappointment of his life. “You look too Asian. Your face doesn’t match someone who speaks English. And it’s not just your face—it’s the way you carry yourself. You’re like someone who just got off the plane from Japan yesterday, still stuck in that ‘foreign’ vibe. And when you try to speak English, people are shocked. They can’t believe you’re even speaking it. They’re impressed, but they’re not really complimenting you.”
 
I couldn’t take it. He was tearing me apart. What was I supposed to say? What could I say?
 
“And honestly,” he went on, his voice cutting through the air like a blade, “you go around saying, ‘My English is like a native speaker’s,’ but it’s not. If you were really American, if you really blended in, people wouldn’t ask, ‘Where do you come from?’ They wouldn’t question it. They’d just know.”
 
Each word felt like salt in a wound I hadn’t even realized was there. I wanted to argue, to fight back, but what was the point? He was right, wasn’t he? I wasn’t American. Not really. I was just a stranger here, trying to act like I belonged, but it was all just a lie.
 
“And another thing,” Jake added, his voice getting colder. “You never listen to advice. When I try to talk to you about stuff, you just turn away, like you’re not even hearing me. When someone says something you don’t want to hear, you just zone out. You don’t even try. I’ve had enough of it.

And let me tell you this straight: you’re a racist. You only care about “blonde hair and blue eyes,” don’t you? I’ve been suspicious for a while, but Karen’s birth sealed it for me. The way you treat your daughters—it’s messed up. You shower the blonde ones with love and affection, but Erica, with her dark hair? She’s always left out, always on the sidelines.

 

I used to wonder why you treated Naomi and Erica so differently. But then Karen came along, and everything became crystal clear.

 

You’d be happy as long as you’re surrounded by blonde hair and blue eyes, wouldn’t you? That’s all it takes for you. Hell, I still remember when you first approached me—a total stranger, some foreigner you had no connection to. I thought it was weird at first. But no, it was simple. You didn’t care about me—just that I looked the way you wanted.

You should be grateful I’m leaving Karen with you. She looks the most like me, after all. Consider it a damn gift."

 
I felt like I was suffocating. My breath was coming in short, ragged gasps, and my chest felt tight, like there was a weight pressing down on me. I couldn’t even think straight anymore.
 
And then, Ally, the one who had been quiet up until now, spoke up, her voice almost timid. “I noticed, too. The only time you use Japanese is when you call your daughter’s name outside the house. Naomi’s upset. You call her ‘Naomi-chan,’ but that’s not how we say it here. We say ‘Naomi,’ like ‘Ne-oh-mee.’ Didn’t you know that?”
 
That was it. That was it. I could hear the whisper of judgment in Ally’s voice, the way she was making me sound like some out-of-place foreigner. It was too much.
 
I couldn’t control myself anymore. I felt my fists clench, my chest heaving with frustration and rage. I let out a wild yell and lunged at Ally. My body moved before my brain could even catch up.
 
I didn’t care anymore. Nothing mattered but the fire in my veins, the need to make them feel what I was feeling, to show them how wrong they were. To make them see.
 
 
 
Six months later.
 
I lost. I totally lost in the divorce mediation that Jake started. The two older girls went to him and Ally, and only my youngest, Karen, stayed with me. Everything else—our house, the furniture, even the plates and spoons, everything that Jake had bought with his salary—was his.
 
I’d been a stay-at-home mom, raising three kids, and there was no time to study. Now I couldn’t even find a job. I had no choice but to buy a one-way ticket back to Japan before I ran out of money.
 
I had to go back. I couldn’t see another way out.
 
For the last six years, I had stayed away from Japan, determined to give my kids a perfect bilingual environment where they could grow up speaking both perfect English and perfect Japanese. My parents welcomed me back, even though I hadn’t been home once in all that time. It was the first time I had been able to show them their grandkids.
 
I had failed with the bilingual education of my older daughters. What would I do with Karen? How could I teach her?
 
I had spent the last six years soaking up all the beautiful words and culture of America, and now I had to pass that on to her. I was willing to do whatever it took. I would work hard to make sure Karen got the best education, the best of both worlds.
 
I started looking for a job online, but what I found made me sick to my stomach. I realized how much time I had wasted, how little I had done.
 
I couldn’t translate. I couldn’t interpret.
 
All those years in America, and I had spoken Japanese with Jake and the kids every single day. I had never made any friends. Not one. Maybe because I was so focused on raising the kids, I had never bothered to build a life outside of our home.
 
I had wanted them to learn Japanese, to grow up perfect bilingual. That was the only thing I cared about. I’d been so strict about it, keeping English outside the house and Japanese inside. If anyone ever came over, they’d get uncomfortable the minute I started speaking Japanese to my kids. It was too much for them. They never came back.
 
And then, out of nowhere, I thought about the Inaba family.
 
I had more kids than they did. I had an American husband, blonde and blue-eyed.
 
But I hadn’t been able to raise my kids like they had. I hadn’t given them the perfect bilingual education they had.
 
And now I had lost two of my daughters.
 
But if the Inabas could raise bilingual kids, then surely I could do it for Karen. I would give her the best education I could. I could do better than they did.
 
I joined an matchmaking circle for people who were English teachers or had experience with bilingual education. It was for people who were serious about raising bilingual kids, people who wanted to be in America but still keep ties with their homeland, people with an income.
 
Then the day of the matchmaking party arrived.
 
The party was held in a hidden venue in Aoyama, and about fifty people were supposed to attend.
 
I wore the finest American fashion and jewelry I had bought myself, the latest style. I slipped into a pair of seven-inch heels and took a cab to the venue.
 
The place was inside a beautiful Baroque building. After checking in at the entrance, I made my way to the powder room for a quick touch-up, checking my outfit one last time.
 
When I opened the door to the party, I stepped in with the best smile I had learned in America, radiating all the charm of my West Coast lifestyle.
 
I was sure everyone would be staring at me, amazed by my American vibe. They must’ve thought I was American. There was no other explanation.
 
I was wearing the fresh, breezy air of the West Coast, the place I had always dreamed of, and I greeted the people around me with bright, enthusiastic energy. I hoped, prayed that I would meet the right guy, someone who could help me raise Karen to be bilingual.
 
I just wanted to find someone, an American, someone awsome.
 
This time, I would be able to give my kid the perfect bilingual environment she deserved.
 
I prayed that I could give my family a new start in the country I had always dreamed of living in.
 
And one day, I would raise a perfect bilingual kid who would make Inaba jealous. Then, I would finally win, and be able to look down on her.
 

1st part of trilogy : here

2nd part of trilogy : here