The Hidden Tenderness

By Zou Siyu, Class 2, Junior Three, Shunde No.1 Middle School Experimental School, Shunde District, Foshan, Guangdong

I still remember that bitterly cold winter of my childhood. The wind whistled, turning my nose red, and I sneezed several times in a row. At once my mother's nagging voice came from the next room: "Put on more clothes right now! If you catch a cold, it's my money spent at the hospital — money doesn't come easy!" I was little then and didn't understand what she really meant beneath the words. I truly believed she only cared about saving money, and quietly planted a little seed in my heart: "So Mother doesn't care about me — she isn't tender at all."

In junior high, though I was already in my teens, I was still a naughty child — thoughtless, fond of complaining and self-righteous, yet without good grades to show for it, so Mother always loved to scold and put me down. I only felt that she had failed to give me the best of life, forgetting the clean clothes folded neatly at my bedside every day, forgetting the figure that so carefully opened my door to check on me after night had fallen, forgetting the warm, delicious meals waiting whenever I came home... I used all this to excuse my own waywardness again and again, never realizing how hard it was for her, all alone, to raise me.

Once when the wardrobe at home broke, she took an iron hammer and set to work all by herself — "bang, bang, bang" — with a force that rivaled any man's, terribly rough. The noise filled our few-dozen-square-meter home and, of course, disturbed the neighbors. A neighbor pounded on the door and gave Mother a harsh scolding. Brow tightly furrowed, she apologized again and again, her slightly hunched back bowed like a small hill, hands clasped, repeating "I'm so sorry." At that moment my heart went cold and my eyes burned hot. I wanted to rush over and protect her, but I didn't. Some force held me back — what was it? Cowardice, or powerlessness? From that moment I knew I wasn't yet worthy; how could I still have the nerve to complain and act self-righteous?

Yes — what I called a lack of tenderness was in fact an inability to be tender; only by pretending to be strong could she protect me. Yes — whenever I felt the slightest discomfort or the slightest sadness, I would find an excuse to burst into loud sobs in front of her, never afraid that she would see through me, and she would never ask me why. She would just hold me silently, wipe away my tears, and remind me to drink some water. Yes — the tenderness she gave me was delicate and enduring, like a murmuring brook caring for its fish and shrimp, hidden away without a sound. Eileen Chang once said that mothers all over the world share the same weakness: praise a dish just once, and they will cook it again and again, until you complain wearily of it. In truth, all her life she has been desperately giving you whatever you thought was good — giving it to you, all of it — loving you so much she hardly knows what to do. They often say, "Even giving birth to a piece of char siu would be better than giving birth to you." May the next time you hear it, what comes to mind be: thank you, Mom, for giving birth to me instead of the char siu.

From now on, her tenderness will be mine to guard.

(Supervising teacher: Li Cuizhen)