The Bakery on Maple Street

When my family moved from Seoul to a small town in Ohio, I was twelve years old.

At first, everything felt strange to me, from the wide streets to the way people smiled at strangers.

My father opened a small bakery on Maple Street, hoping to build a new life for us.

Every morning before school, I helped him arrange bread on the shelves, though I barely spoke to the customers.

One rainy afternoon, a girl named Emma came in and pointed at a pastry she had never seen before.

I explained in slow English what it was, and she listened with real interest.

After that, she visited the bakery almost every week, and we slowly became friends.

She taught me how to play baseball, and I showed her how to make rice cakes.

Now, two years later, I still miss Korea sometimes, but I no longer feel like a stranger here.

My identity is not simply Korean or American; it is a mixture of both, and I am proud of it.