As I grew up, I realized that my mother had contradictions in the way she raised us from childhood to adulthood, and now that I think about it, I am filled with heartache over these contradictions.

For example, many of her demands on our schoolwork may have arisen from comparisons between neighbors and relatives. During my rebellious middle school years, I would specifically point out the "comparison mentality" and talk back. Of course, a Libra mom would only explode in anger even more when she heard the "talk back". The next step would be to stage a scene in which she would throw my reference books or practice test papers into the trash can, only to pick them up later after she had cooled off, telling me that she was doing it all for my own good. I believe many parents do the same thing, putting their expectations and pressures on their kids' schoolwork. But did she truly care that much about my grades in school? Or was it also the pressure from the whispers around her? When my sister and I started acting, my mom and dad came up north to see every one of my performances. It seemed like she was finally letting go of those standards and restrictions. Perhaps it was because we had left home after college, and she couldn't control us anymore. Maybe she thought it was good that the kids weren't misbehaving. Looking back at what she demanded of us in the past, it was as if she was trying to hold onto some kind of self-imposed bottom line, or maybe it's just that nowadays we all understand each other a little bit better.

Another contradiction surfaced in my kindergarten years.

In kindergarten, my mother used to drive me to school on her scooter every morning and then open the family hair salon in the living room. But that day, I remember clearly, it was raining heavily, and my dad had taken the scooter to the police station. So, she quickly put a light raincoat on me and led my sister and me to our neighbor’s house. My mom asked our neighbor, Mrs. Chang, to babysit my sister and borrowed her scooter to take me to school. Mrs. Chang was a frequent visitor at my mom's, and when she came to do my hair, she would call me by my nickname, "Tu Bao," just like my parents did. I recall that when I was a kid, I loved to mimic her high-pitched, affectionate tone of voice, and my mom would burst into laughter.

When I hopped onto the motorcycle's back seat, my mom instructed me to hug her tightly. She swiftly wrapped a large piece of her peach-colored raincoat around my head to shield me from the wind-driven raindrops. I was sandwiched between the peach-colored raincoat and the familiar scent of my mom's perfume. Beyond the raincoat, the world was obscured by a dull swoosh of rain, sweeping by denser and faster. The sounds of people and cars came and went in an instant, creating a chaotic backdrop. I could sense my mom's growing agitation.

As we approached the school in my mind, there was a sudden jolt, throwing me backward and then bouncing me back into my mother's back. A sharp cry pierced the air as the whole peach-colored world tilted to the lower left. My helmet first struck the asphalt road, the impact not too strong, but it squeezed my left calf on the inner side, creating a burning sensation that made me instinctively pull away. Did the scooter fall? I got out of the raincoat. It was then that I realized I was lying on the road, not against a wall, and my mom was lying beside me. Her helmet was still on her head, and the sounds of rain, people, and cars around us became sharp and clear. Slowly raising my head, I saw a crowd forming, a blue minivan parked nearby, and our collapsed motorcycle with a broken rear mirror. Ah, the accident, it was our own accident, Mom! I stood frozen for a moment before I started shaking my mom. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. To my left, I saw a hospital across the street. Yes, we were almost at the kindergarten. That was the hospital near the school, I thought. Soon enough, several people in white rushed to us. Someone pushed a bed with rollers, and someone helped me up. Gradually, everything returned to normal.

Then I found myself sitting in the hospital room. I recall the nurse gently applying medicine to my bruised calf and reassuring me that it was just a bruise. Soon after, my mom regained consciousness. Besides the medical staff, Dad arrived, accompanied by a middle-aged man, presumably the minivan driver, my homeroom teacher, and the school principal.

"Why am I in the hospital?" my mom inquired as she woke up. Dad calmly responded, urging her not to worry. "Where is Tu Bao?" I stepped forward, ensuring Mom could see me. "Where is my daughter?" Dad informed her that my sister was at Mrs. Chang's house and asked her not to worry. But by then, I sensed something was amiss. Within five minutes, my mom began repeating the same questions. I instinctively grabbed her hand and reassured her, "I'm here."Panic settled in, and the principal escorted me back to school.

It must have been past noon, and with no clock in sight, the principal guided me to the school's kitchen. We sat in a corner to eat while the kitchen staff tidied up the large tableware for each class. They served fried rice, my favorite food, that day, and as usual, I devoured more than two plates. The principal chuckled at my hearty appetite, which lightened the atmosphere. Amidst my meal, I couldn't forget about my mom's condition, so I mustered the courage to inquire. The principal assured me that my mom was fine, though the bruise on my left calf served as a poignant reminder; it stung.

Two days later, my mom returned home, and during those days, my dad took time off work to stay with her. I trailed behind my mom, answering her myriad of questions about trivial aspects of life, our whereabouts, and more. When I returned home from school, I secretly observed her. Even while doing my homework, I eavesdropped from my room after a shower, fearing that my mom might forget about us one day.

One night, my mom walked alone to the screen door of the balcony, scanning the surroundings as if searching for something, as if everything before her was now unfamiliar. Dad didn't appear to invite her onto the balcony to clear her mind. Instead, my mom cautiously probed the darkness, remarking, "It's very dark.” “Mom was afraid of the dark?" I jumped in surprise and peeked into the room to see what Mom and Dad were up to. Dad promptly assured her that there was a small light on the balcony.

Mom was afraid of the dark, just like me.

As I grew older, I learned that the accident had caused bleeding and lumps in my mom's brain, leading to selective memory loss and repetitive questioning. However, she recovered after about two weeks of treatment.

My mother's fear of the dark came as a surprise back then. She used to ask us to go out to the balcony at night to assist with the laundry or hang out the clothes. Whenever I protested, exclaiming it was too dark, she would calmly respond, "What's there to be afraid of? There's nothing that's going to harm you." I would retort, "You said the Tiger Aunt will eat us!” As I grew older, my mother confessed her fears to me – the dark, snakes, and walking down alleys.

This revelation deeply affected me. I understood that the falsehoods and inconsistencies in her statements were manifestations of her brave facade—a mask that slowly fostered her inner courage. As we matured, she continued to learn how to be a mother, showcasing resilience in the face of her fears and uncertainties.

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