Once upon a time in Oakland, there was a boy named Dara. His parents had crossed an ocean to escape war, carrying with them the rhythm of the Khmer language — soft syllables like falling rain, and sharp ones like the snap of bamboo.

At home, his mother would call,

"Dara, mok nov ni!" — Come here!

But Dara would answer in English, every time.

"Okay, Mom!"

In the early years, he understood her words without thinking. But school filled his head with English spelling tests, baseball games, and superhero comics. Khmer was something for the kitchen and the temple — not for the playground.

When he was twelve, his grandmother moved in. She only spoke Khmer. She tried to teach him words: plai t'naot (palm fruit), champei (frangipani), somleng (voice). Dara laughed awkwardly, repeating the sounds, but they slipped away as quickly as they came.

Years passed. Dara grew into a young man. He went to college, built a career, made friends from every background — but at family gatherings, he sat on the edge of conversations, nodding politely as the elders spoke and the younger cousins translated for him.

One summer, his grandmother passed away. At her funeral, the temple filled with chanting in Khmer, low and steady. Dara bowed his head, but he felt like a ghost in his own story — present in body, but locked out by language.

Months later, Dara visited Cambodia for the first time. The air was heavy with the smell of lemongrass and exhaust. People smiled at him, speaking words he could not answer. A little boy in the market tugged at his sleeve, asking something in Khmer. Dara froze. He didn't even know how to say, I don't understand.

That night, lying under a slow-turning fan, Dara thought about all the voices he had missed — his grandmother's stories, his parents' memories, his own heritage whispered in a language he had let slip away.

In the morning, he bought a notebook. On the first page, he wrote three words in careful letters:

សួស្តី (Hello)

អរគុណ (Thank you)

សុំទោស (Sorry)

It wasn't much. But it was a beginning.