Two years ago, in 2010, on a certain day in August, my editor, my mom, and I left Taoyuan early in the morning. We carried our equipment and cooking materials and headed to Taipei to shoot a short film for the promotion of "Toy Knife: Poetry Collection of Yu-Zheng." We met the director, actors, and friends at the Liuzhang Plough Station and then walked to Prof. Tsai's house, thanks to the help of Tsai's entire family, to start the day's filming.

Why did I bring my mom to the shoot? When I first read the line "My short blade, pulled out from his body is a long life," I thought of my mom and many other mothers in the world. They bet on their children without any time limit, and in the end, we got their life, but they got loneliness.

Once we had the idea for the script, we discussed it with the director. We also talked about who we wanted to cast as the mom. Initially, my mom was reluctant to be cast. She even took the initiative to ask her relatives and friends, whom she called "relatively pretty and dignified." Finally, unable to find anyone, she was convinced by me to be cast.

The night before the shooting, my mom asked me in the living room, "I'm afraid it will backfire. If I don't do a good job, I'll slow down your book sales."

"Just help me out, please."

The storyline of the short film was elegantly straightforward: a mother heads out early to shop for groceries and prepares a loving meal upon her return. Her daughter and son, along with her granddaughter, join her for a warm family dinner. Afterwards, as the night settles, she bids them farewell and sits down on the sofa in her pajamas to watch TV until she falls asleep.

On the day of the shoot, she was busy cooking in the kitchen. When it was her turn to shoot, she rushed to the stage. Her performance was often spot-on; she didn't need to work on her emotions deliberately to meet the director's requirements. Watching her sleeping on the sofa in the video, I couldn't help but remember that every time I came home from the studio late at night, she would be dozing off on the sofa, waiting for me in her pajamas.

A few days later, when I accompanied her to view the finished video, I secretly gazed at her. Although her face and hair hadn't changed much, there were more wrinkles and dark spots. She kept shaking her head and said, "It's really not a pretty picture. Will it drag you down?" I didn't respond. I just pressed the replay button and said, "Let's watch it again." She calmed down, watched it again, and said, "A lot of people's moms are like that."

Yes, a lot of people's moms are like that.

But very few moms have to work so hard with their kids and careers when they are 60 years old, right?

A year later, in August, I had to ask my mom to take my two nieces and nephews to a printing plant in Zhonghe to help me with the handmade packaging for another book. I asked for help because I didn't have the funds to do it. For two consecutive days, they did nothing for themselves, but engaged in the mechanical task of assembling special book jackets for the parallelograms. I watched, unable to say anything, but to work quietly.

Another year went by, and it was the same August. Since I didn't have any money left for the handmade wrapping letter that was to be inserted into the book, I asked my mom to bring my two nieces to the studio to do the handmade work. At the time, I was too busy translating and editing Hemingway's novels to talk to them. But when I came out of my small office to pour some water, I was mortified to see my mom wearing glasses and wrapping the book.

It's so sad to be my family.

Since Comma Books became a one-person company, I've had to deal with more and more things, coming home later and later. Every time I rode my scooter to the front door of my house and turned off the engine, I would hear the sound of my mom pulling open the screen door. Then, through the gap of the iron roll-up door, I would see her figure rushing out of the living room to help me open the door.

Because there was so much to do, I would come home and turn on the computer to continue working overtime. She would sit next to me and watch TV, sometimes even falling asleep. "It's twelve o'clock; you should go to bed." "No, I'm not going to sleep until you go up." Mom knew that even if I told her it would only take five minutes, I would still stay up until one or two o'clock. As time went by, she threatened me not to stay up late in such a way that I had to turn off the computer and get ready to rest. Should I say that she had a very deep heart, or was she too simple?

The publishing house has been open for two years, and finally there are some better-selling works and more exposure opportunities. But there is still a long way to go before it can operate with ease. Looking at the warehouse full of books in stock and the messy billing records, I felt heartbroken. When I took a mirror, I felt panicked when I saw the old dark circles under my eyes and the white hairs that were rapidly popping out. When I got home and saw my mom wearing presbyopia glasses to help me study the check cycle, I felt deeply sorry.

Why on earth, at the age of 30, would I let go of my steady income and stable life to pursue my dream? Why is it that after two years, I still haven't accomplished much and have nothing but books, books, and books? Why can't I become a successful son?

Occasionally, I would express my guilt through food. Of course, I would tell her about my current troubles and how sorry I was for her and my dad. However, my mom would always look at me coldly and say, "You just need me to steer the ship, or you won't be able to make it."

I remembered that two years ago, my dad, who was working in China, watched the video over the Internet and eagerly discussed it with my mom on Skype. He said, "When you hugged your daughter at the end, why didn't it look natural to you?" My mom replied, "I wanted to cry when I thought of you and my eldest son being away from Taiwan, but I couldn't let my little one see it, so I had to hold it in." It dawned on me: I knew that my son's entry into the publishing world would easily cost me money, but I was surprised to see him publish a book of poems in the first place (the owner of the bookstore once told her, "We don't sell poems because people nowadays don't read poetry!) However, no matter how worried she was, my mom never showed it and firmly supported my dream, telling me not to be afraid of not having enough money…

Nowadays, my mom prefers to imply that I am a mama's boy to save my face, rather than touching my inner guilt button with unnecessary soft words to see me cry. What can I say?

This is my mom. I have no way to repay her; I can only love her well.

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