Happiness was little me, being with my mother.

I would often close my eyes in the afternoon sunlight, imagining that maybe one day she’d hold my hand after school, listening to my stories about the day—whether they were happy or not. I imagined her at home, embracing me, or all the family I loved gathered around in a warm hug. I dreamed of a birthday dinner with both my parents, a miracle where they’d reconcile, even if just for that one day, just for me. I hoped my mother would never learn to cook or cut her beautiful, soft hair. And if none of that was possible, I wanted at least to preserve the scent on her pillow. Little me was afraid that hugging it too tightly would erase her fragrance, so I only hugged it when I felt especially sad, stealing a quick sniff before burying myself under the covers to have a good, quiet cry.

But like a fading scent, her shadow vanished from my world.

In my dreams, she never looked into my eyes. It was as if I couldn’t even imagine her gazing at me with warmth.

Back in kindergarten, I once threw a tantrum because I want to go to a park twice per day. Now that I think about it, I must have put up quite a fuss. I probably deserved a timeout in my room. After all, picking a child up and spanking them isn’t exactly legal these days.

But that day, my mother said something in a low, distant voice: she told me she didn’t want me anymore.

She pushed me out with all her might, her small child fighting desperately against her strength, and threw me out the door. I clung to the frame, trying to squeeze back inside, but she kept pushing, until the light filtering through the door slowly disappeared. I was afraid of the dark as a child—I could never sleep without a light on. Even now, Miss Lin still leaves a nightlight on for me, soothing the parts of me that depression has long worn down.

That hallway was the darkest it had ever been.

The desperate screams of a little girl echoed in that corridor. She stood by the door, pleading, too scared to move. She thought, “My family loves me—how could they not want me?” If she left, surely they would be worried.

She cried until there was no sound, until there was no strength left. Suddenly, she realized that as long as she couldn’t be who they wanted her to be, no one cared where she was. If a stranger with ill intent had come to carry her away, she would’ve hugged him and poured out her sadness, anything to leave the place that had abandoned her.

But no one came.

From that day on, I became certain that no love, not even the love I gave or received, would ever be eternal. My sense of safety shattered that day, irreparably.

I stayed outside for a long, long time. I don’t remember when I was finally pulled back in. I don’t remember how I spent that long, dark night alone. I don’t know how many more times in life my mother would abandon me. I didn’t know, then, that every connection in my future would be shadowed by this fear of sinking into darkness. I don’t know where the next dawn might come from. I’ve lived carefully ever since, like a fragile glass bottle, always tiptoeing.

As I grew up, I waited and tested, hoping one day my mother might apologize. If it’s abuse to leave a misbehaving puppy on the street, isn’t it child abuse for a caretaker to throw out her own child? But each time I brought it up, she only ever said the same thing: I was too naughty.

Whenever I asked, she always had something to say.

She said work was hard, that she sacrificed so much for me, running from one end of the city to the other every day for the family. Mom was a hero. Mom was the lone warrior raising her child. Mom was wise and noble. She was the only one who suffered. She worked holidays, earned triple pay on National Day, Mid-Autumn Festival, New Year’s Eve, and it didn’t matter whether she spent these days with family. She was doing it all for me.

She said, “You’re too sensitive. You’re too weak. When you need help on a test, just ask your classmates to let you copy. You’re a slow bird, so you need to fly early. How can you spend my money like this? See how much I love you.”

She said, “You were just in a mental hospital at the beginning of the year, and now, three months later, you’re back in school! You’re recovering so fast from depression—it’s incredible! Congratulations!”

How could my mother ever be wrong? She was my mother, my angel, my unreachable dream. And now I could talk to her anytime—no need to wait a whole month for a long-distance call.

But she was no longer my dream.