After my mother passed away, I couldn't move on for a long time. Until one day, I saw the diary she left behind. It read: "My dear daughter." "If you don't know how to live." "Then let Mom help you one last time." 1 After Mom passed away. I was listless for a long time. More than once, I wanted to jump off that mountain. But Mom was the wind before the mountain. Again and again, blowing me back to the safe zone. ... At 1:00 AM, I arrived home. When I opened the door, Dad was the same as usual. Thumb and index finger weakly pinching a glass, pouring alcohol into his stomach. I couldn't help but think, after Mom left. Besides me, the one who couldn't move on was Dad. But neither of us learned how to hide our emotions. Just like now, he wanted to present the image of a playful dad welcoming his daughter home for the holidays. But what I saw was. A miserable man with tear streaks on his face, forcing a smile. He hung the corners of his mouth by his ears, smiling. Looking at me helplessly, waiting for a hug. I also forced a smile like him. Then put down my schoolbag, stepped forward, and hugged him tightly. He said: "Jenny, have you eaten?" "I'll cook you a pack of noodles." Saying that, he let go of me and went to the kitchen. Then reached out to open the top cabinet in the kitchen. I watched from afar; inside was a row of instant noodles. And by the induction cooker, there were a few wrappers and noodle crumbs. Thinking about it, all these days alone, he just made do like this. This is the first Christmas after Mom left. Too lonely, too bleak. Without her, we can't live well at all. I couldn't hold it back; tears dripped onto the floor like a faucet. And my dad seemed a bit drunk; not only did he not notice my emotions. He accidentally pulled down a stack of bowls and plates. The sound of shattering porcelain instantly scared my tears back. I ran to my dad; the back of his hand was scratched. Blood flowed onto... Flowed onto a diary. I was stunned. A diary? 2 My mom's name was Connie. She graduated from elementary school. She knew quite a few words. But there were still typos. The names she noted in her contacts. Many were written phonetically. For example, Aunt Huiqin from the vegetable market. She wrote "Rotten Tree" (sounds like Huiqin in Chinese dialect, implying her vegetables are expensive). Aunt Xiuli from the supermarket. She wrote "Pig Heart" (sounds like Xiuli, noting she was fierce to Jenny, won't buy from her again). Wang Guifang, whom she got along well with. She noted "Wang Beautiful" (Jenny likes her, I like her too). Every time I saw her contacts, I wanted to laugh. But every time I saw her note for me, I wanted to cry. She wrote: Jenny Miller "Connie's Good Daughter" "My Favorite" At the very end, there were three little hearts. And now, I was holding a diary in my hand. It was all handwritten by her. On the cover was a paragraph. "To Jenny" "My dear daughter." "If you don't know how to live." "Then let Mom help you one last time." This diary was thick. I flipped through it roughly; every page was full. And the handwriting was very neat. No typos, no content crossed out by ink. She probably guessed that I always disliked messy notebooks. Naturally, I would like the diary to be clean and tidy too. So she secretly practiced for a long time. For a moment, my eyes stung unbearably. To control my emotions, I put the diary away. Then helped my dad to the living room. Bandaged his wound. 3 2:00 AM. My dad fell asleep in the living room. I lay in the bedroom. Never daring to open that diary. Finally, with no other way. I mimicked how Mom was when she was alive. Put on yellow rubber gloves, put on an apron. Cleaned the whole house from top to bottom. To distract myself. I remember, she did this every few days before Christmas. The sofa, she had to pull it out to clean the trash deep inside. Pots and pans, all had to be scrubbed. Bedding and covers, must change to clean, newly bought ones. She said new year, new atmosphere, everything must start anew. Whether annoying or happy. All left in the last year. The new year must welcome new changes. She also said. Whether sad or painful. Whether happy or lucky. We must accept it calmly. Everything must look forward. Yes. I have to accept the fact that she has left. After cleaning all this up. It was already morning. My dad hadn't woken up yet. And I had already put on a thick coat and went to the supermarket. In previous years, Mom and I went to buy Spring Festival couplets (decorations) together. She always picked and chose, saying this meaning wasn't as good as that one. Saying that one didn't fit the artistic conception of next year. Every time, she would choose for half a day. But now, I stood in front of the grandpa selling couplets. Not knowing what to choose. They all looked the same. Glaring red. Especially the words "Family Reunion." Even more glaring. Finally, just like I used to fudge my homework. Picked a pair randomly. After buying, I couldn't help thinking of her again. This time with a bit of blame. I couldn't help complaining in my heart. Look, Mom. I haven't grown into an adult yet. Don't even know how to choose couplets. Blame you, left too early. Didn't have time to teach me. Later, when I walked around the market, I realized. Mom didn't teach me more than just how to choose couplets. How to buy the sweetest watermelon in winter. How to buy the freshest vegetables in the market. How to bargain with those aunts and uncles. She didn't teach me any of it. Even the fastest route home. She never mentioned it. Otherwise. Why is the road ahead getting blurrier the more I walk? 4 When I got home, Dad was still a bit hungover. He looked at me carrying big and small bags. Instantly sobered up. Without even putting on shoes properly, he took the things from my hands. After putting things away, he came back and stroked my hands frozen red with heartache. He said: "Blame me, drank too much again." "Tired? Hungry? Daddy cook you a pack of noodles?" After speaking, guilt appeared in his eyes. I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. Then explained. "Sorry, Daddy only knows how to cook noodles." I nodded. Yes. Dad only knows how to cook noodles and make money. Mom took care of us too well. So, after she left. Our sky. Collapsed. I shook my head, told Dad I ate at the market just now. Then went to the kitchen. Just like in the early morning. I picked up the apron. Imagining Mom's appearance. Kneading dough. Chopping filling. Making dumplings. Trying to keep myself busy. Let myself forget the diary Mom left behind. That was my only thought. I wanted to wait for a solemn time to open it. Because it said. "To Jenny." "My dear daughter." "If you don't know how to live." "Then let Mom help you one last time." I thought, I can't disappoint Mom. I can't let her know that I'm not living well. 5 (Note: Numbering restarted in source text, continuing sequentially here) But, I was a bit lousy. That solemn time. Came so lightly. After I failed to knead the dough countless times. I suddenly missed her like crazy. Why could she mix flour and water so harmoniously? While I made this pile of stuff look like rotten mud every time. Why could she do everything so well? And I can't even knead dough. Do I not deserve to be her daughter? Should I be the one with cancer? Should that last diary be written by me? The more I thought, the more twisted my state of mind became. Until my eyes fell on the kitchen knife on the board. My red eyes widened instantly. Guess I was silent for a long time. My dad ran in. He came just in time. Blood hadn't flowed too much yet. My consciousness was also clear enough. Could still hear him calling my name. Could also hear the sound of the ambulance. And. In a trance. I seemed to hear Mom say. "Silly child." "Why so clumsy? Can't even knead dough?" "Be good, Mom teach you." 6 Yeah. Mom. I'm too clumsy. Come back and teach me. 7 The doctor pulled my dad to the hallway entrance. He said I had depression and suicidal tendencies. Then the doctor glanced at me guardedly. Pulled my dad into another room. They were discussing my condition. I imagined, would my dad collapse? Wife died of cancer. Daughter got depression. Would he find it harder to accept things? I imagined him crying and complaining in front of the doctor. But I suddenly couldn't empathize. I only felt the birds outside the window were very free. I was a bit happy, then smiled. At dusk. I finally couldn't bear the longing for her. Opened the first page of the diary. I was afraid, if I didn't open it now. There would be no chance to open it.
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