Love Concealment

At an early age, I knew that my mother and father did not get along. They rarely spoke, and often shut me out of the room to argue. The battles were often started by my mother, whose voice was loud and persistent inside the room, while my father only obediently answered a few words, like a schoolboy with a weak heart. As far as I could understand at the time, my mother was the winner. But when they walked out, she was not the least bit satisfied with her victory, and even had tears on her face. Later on, I heard a phrase called "the evil one", and I immediately remembered my mother's tears. She cried when her father was defeated.

When I was in junior high school, I lived at school and went home once a week. That day, my parents came together to see me at school. The family went to the street during the lunch break, and they held my left and right, let me pick what to eat, what to wear, and what to use, and bought it all for me. I was overjoyed, and I was always in happiness at that noon, dreaming that it was the beginning of a harmonious life for the family in the future.

However, when I came home again, my father was nowhere to be seen. My mother, in my sharp, puzzled gaze, her eyes flashing and her words hard were trying her best to say good things about my father. I yelled, "I don't want to hear this. You've driven him away and you're speaking for him, which only proves that you're weak, because you have someone else in mind?" I was surprised that a teenager was shouting what I thought was the most vicious and insulting slang at my mother.

My mother looked at me, biting her lower lip and not making a sound.

Children of single-parent families are rebellious. I didn't talk to my mother much, I skipped school, I fell in love early, I ran away from home again and again, and she found me again and again. When she asked me what I wanted to do, I justifiably choked her with words like "I'm going to find my dad". Whenever this happens, she doesn't say anything, but just looks at me, with anxiety and loss written in her eyes, which stirs up pleasure in my heart.

Once, I secretly took the money and skipped class to go to the suburbs with a group of classmates to "go green". When I returned home, three days later, my mother's anger erupted like a mountain torrent. She scolded me, took the ruler from the sewing machine, and smacked my palm one after another. I stood, not shrinking, not frowning, not screaming in pain, and not crying. I held my head high, like a strong "revolutionary warrior", and she kept on smacking. Eventually, she lost the confrontation and she cried. She cried and yelled at me, "Please scream in pain, I'll stop if you scream in pain!"

I held my head high and did not scream.

She fell to her knees in front of me, crying and not knowing what to do. She said, "I only thought that I had taken great care to comfort you and that the crippling of my family should not slow you down. However, to relieve myself, I hurt you, child ......"

I did not understand her words, and did not want to look deeper, but ran into the room, hugging my father's photo and shouting "Dad", crying with pathos and desolation. The first thing you need to do is to take a look at the picture. I did not look at her, I only felt something in the palm of my hand patting, warm and comfortable, it was her tears.

I suddenly remembered a life: hit on the child, pain in the mother's heart. Who said that?

I thought, confused for this phrase or themselves, nose sore a little, then tears.

That night, my mother smiled, and I sat at the table to eat dinner, from the end of the tossing and turning to add dishes to my bowl, and insisted that I go to my room to rest, and then sat in front of the bed for a long time reluctant to leave. When I woke up, she had fallen asleep on the bed. I looked at her, she was sleeping peacefully and quietly, and the white hair that appeared on her head was dizzying.

Suddenly, I felt like I shouldn't have upset her.

However, at the age of a teenager, what I can't do is behave well, and what I don't know is the depth of a mother's love and return to her mother. The occasional flashes of good thoughts were just rainbows after the rain, fleeting and unpredictable. The next morning, I still carried my school bag through the table full of breakfast without looking at it. The next morning, I was still carrying my book bag through the table full of breakfast.

My grades have not been good. I was resigned to my fate, but she didn't believe me and kept changing my tutor. Our economic situation is not good, she finished her class, at an electronics factory processing parts, which is to the kind of sharp-edged small glass beads through the silver wire, to wear 1000 to earn a dollar. She kept under the lamp every night, tirelessly dry. Fingers first calloused, calluses, and then worn out, the finger will be the same, flesh and blood a mess. Apply alcohol, wrap with gauze, and continue to wear. She hired tutors for me, picking famous school students, people never return a point of the price.

A few years later, I graduated from a local third-rate university, and our conflict intensified again. I want to go south with my boyfriend, but she did not agree. We talked, broke up, and broke up again. She asked why, and I hardened my heart and said, "I don't have a father in my life, so finding a boy who looks like my father is the greatest ideal." She lowered her head and said nothing more.

The real reason I really can not bear to say, as early as two years ago, my father has contact with me. This time, instead of going south to follow love, it is better to go looking for a dream that has been lost for too long.

The day I left, my mother advised, pleaded, and finally stormed out. Finally, hopelessly crying behind me: "If you go out, don't come back, I don't want you, you insensitive thing!" I froze for a moment and walked away without looking back.

I left my mother for a long time, but my heart was soaked with her tears, I couldn't breathe, and realized that I loved her, but the image of the "villain" was deeply rooted in my mind when I was a child. Perhaps, also because of the cold way we get along with each other in these years, the warmest affection will be sealed up. I loved her, but I didn't know it.

The night in a foreign country without my mother was endless. I cried under the blanket and kept calling my mother, who was no longer as restless as she was on the day she left, but very calm. It was as if I had figured out that I was a kite that had broken free from its string. Even if she was attached to it, now that I was flying, she could only wait hopelessly.

The first time I met my father was at his home. A woman of the same age as my mother, whom I called my aunt, and an 8-year-old boy who was as tall as my shoulders, who called me his sister. I looked at my brother's father's charm in his eyes, and jealousy swept through my heart. It was in my heart to calculate: brother he is 8 years old. That is to say, when my father left me, my brother had already taken root and sprouted.

Of course, so much time had passed, and I was not the silly child who yelled at my mother, "You have someone else in your heart," so I should not think anything about my father's life now. But somehow, feeling their happiness, while happy for my father, at the same time lost, for my mother. She and her father, who had lived under the same roof for more than ten years, had walked hand in hand through so many days and evenings. And now, he has another heavenly love, he left her when she was less than 40 years old, but during these years she kept a low profile, obscure daughter who asked for her father all day long.

My father realized, reached over and held my hand, and said, "Are you blaming me?" I thought about it, smiled, and said, "No, the word dad to me, has worn out under the good intentions of my mother over the years. People have the right to make choices and reasons, I understand. It is Mom, she has not blamed you, we bless you." At that moment, tears like rain, return to the heart of the arrow.

When I entered the house, my mother was sitting on the sofa sewing an undershirt that I wore as a child. I called out to my mother, she had a momentary pause, her fingers were probably pricked by a needle, and she held it in her mouth and flew into the kitchen. I went to the kitchen and shouted "Mom", but my mother continued to ignore me, but her back was shaking.

I remembered an article I read as a child about an owl, an animal that eats its mother's flesh. The mother gave birth to it, raised it, devoted her life, along with the last of the flesh and blood ...... so, so many years, I am an owl! I devoured my mother's blood and tears to grow, but also to break her heart ...... I fell to my knees at her feet.

The mother wiped her tears to help me up, just a few seconds, her demeanor back to extremely natural as if we are not a pair of mustard years of mother and daughter.

That afternoon, I sat next to my mother on the balcony with a small bench, and a long-lost warmth curled up in my heart. I finally got up the courage to cautiously talk to her about my father. The mother was very calm, not the usual indignation of a negative man who never dies. I finally couldn't resist asking, "But mom, at that time, why didn't you explain to me?"

The mother smiled faintly: "We can't give you a complete home, so why to press the obscure truth into your young mind?"

It turns out that she did not want her daughter to digest the heavy choices too early, and did not want me to face the constraint and helplessness too early. For this reason, she was willing to live in my ignorance of the accumulated grievances, and patiently watch, while I, therefore, have a quiet, loving, grateful heart.