Chapter 3
Chapter 3
My Father died in battle when I was very young, so he never had the chance to pat me on the head.
Father had no brothers from the same mother, only a half-brother born to a concubine. Consequently, the family estate fell into the hands of my half-uncle. My Mother’s health was poor; she struggled on until I was seven or eight years old, but her illness grew severe, and eventually, she passed away too.
When I think of her now, the most vivid memory I have is of her sitting in that old, dilapidated courtyard, washing clothes for others while I stood there watching her.
That must have been shortly after I hit my head. At three or four years old, I couldn’t control my own body and had soiled my skirts.
Mother was furious. She raised her hand and slapped me hard. My backside stung terribly, and I began to wail, my heart filled with grievance.
But as she hit me, she suddenly pulled me into her arms and started sobbing along with me.
Seeing her cry, I froze. Although I was afraid of her, I was also close to her. Mother cried with such profound sorrow that my own chest felt tight and heavy. I used my sleeve to wipe away her tears, stammering out a comfort: “Don’t cry, Mother… Xiao Man doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
But Mother only cried harder.
I waited helplessly for her to finish. I watched as she dried her tears and, with hands that were cold, swollen, and covered in chilblains, led me into the house. She changed me into clean clothes and then went back outside to continue her unfinished work.
I sat by the drafty window, watching her scrub the laundry with all her might, her efforts punctuated by fits of soul-wrenching coughing.
The weather grew colder and colder, but we had no cloth to spare, so that broken window was never repaired. Mother’s illness flared up again and again, never easing. Busy every day just to survive, she never had a moment to rest; she had no time to pat me on the head.
Back then, all I could think was: when would my half-uncle remember to come and fix this window for us?
If only the window were fixed, Mother would get better.
But the window remained broken, and Mother never got well.