Somehow she was a little relieved, not that she had survived, but she had died.
Like a fatal twist, all that she had protected and saved, was fl ushed away by Bing’s single confession, as though a ton of shit had been collected.
Mei was alerted by the thud of a sudden knock on her door. She heard an urgent voice: “Mom! Open the door! Mom! Open the door!”
It was her little son. Without getting to her feet, she moved to the end of the bed and stretched one arm to let him in.
Before Mei laid back to where she had been, the little boy jumped to her shoulders on all fours. His little arms surrounded her neck tightly. The playful scratches of his smart fi ngertips tickled her. The bridge of his fl at nose connected with the bridge of her flatter nose. The finely smooth but chilly skin of his face touched the rough skin of hers. The warmth in the touch that gave each a soothing feeling was a mother’s warmth. It was a full inspiration of happiness and love. Mei captured the imperfection of happiness and recaptured the delicacy of love. Precisely, it was a moment when people hardly observed how rich life could be and how historic pains were forgettable.