In those years of waiting for my mother, my heart slowly grew colder, until I could no longer hear it beating.

My grandmother stepped in as my guardian with fierce authority, controlling every part of my life in the name of love, as though she were crafting an artwork in a one-time blaze of passion.

I, once a wild child, became withdrawn and afraid to express myself. I was sent to a training program for young hosts, but there, too, I felt like a silent porcelain doll. I was bullied at school, silently enduring it, only to be scolded at home for my weakness. My grandmother truly loved me but couldn’t understand why I was this way. She’d accompany me as I, too honest for my own good, was elected as class labor monitor, cleaning the classroom each day. On holidays, she’d decorate the lights with colorful paper cutouts. She’d bring gifts to my teacher, confront the math teacher who would hit me on the head with a protractor, storming into his office, even slapping him once. When she heard me crying, her heart might have hurt more than mine did, and she’d start yelling to make me stop. And so, I learned to cry silently, never daring to make a sound.

The only safe time was at night, after Grandma had checked on me repeatedly, finally assured I was asleep. I’d pull the blanket over my head, feeling the tears flow freely, careful to keep quiet so she wouldn’t storm in and punish me for crying. I had an uncle in America, a Christian who’d tell my grandma Bible stories, urging her to be baptized so she could reach heaven after death. She didn’t believe in it, yet she accepted baptism and told me, “Hold love in your heart, and you can reach heaven. You can pray to God.”

In those days before cell phones and MP3 players, I would wrap myself tightly in thick blankets during winter, trying to imagine what it felt like to be loved: a warm hug, hands reluctant to let go, a comforting warmth.

In sleepless nights, that little seven-year-old who had never stepped into a church would pray to God daily. She’d begin with a greeting, aware that God had a long list of complaints to hear each day, which must have been exhausting. She tried to be a good child, to serve God, for that was what God-approved love should be. She wanted to hear His approval, a voice from the heavens amid her daily pain, affirming her love and reassuring her of her right to exist in this world.

But she knows. She can’t really hear anything from the God.

God is always silent.

She started to lose her sense of feeling. The mask she wore all day wouldn’t come off at night. She sensed a powerful force within her, something like a beast clawing to destroy her, yet the door to drive it away was locked tight. So she began imagining happiness she couldn’t feel, began inflicting pain upon herself, pushing herself to the edge—anything to feel alive. Anything to break through the door trapping her emotions, to finally find true freedom and peace.

Each night, I fought in silence with the beast within. When I finally drove it away, I could feel a fleeting second of heaven, tears breaking free like a dam. In that one second of happiness, I would imagine doing something meaningful, like a little girl striking her last match in an Andersen fairy tale.

I wanted a family.

In that brief moment, I would imagine myself embracing my loved ones, feeling their love. It was the closest I ever came to feeling real love. It was like that miraculous moment when a wandering soul glimpses the galaxy and hears the faint echo of their mother’s voice.

But after that second, I felt nothing again. I came to call those tears my “crocodile tears.”

One ordinary afternoon, I lay in bed quietly beside Miss Lin, feeling her breathing beside me, and my heart was as calm as the rippling water beneath willow shade. I asked her, “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Do you know what I used to think about in those moments?”

Suddenly, she started crying uncontrollably. I panicked, thinking my darkness had frightened her. Worried, I asked if she was okay, and she only said, “I just feel so sorry for you. I never realized how much pain you’ve been through. I just want to hold that little girl who couldn’t cry out in the dark.”

Yet I felt nothing in particular. I had grown up, layer upon layer enclosing my heart, into an adult who shivers and tears up at a mother’s face or a mother’s lullaby. I am no longer the child who looked forward to death every day—I want to open her heart, hold her hand, and from her hazy memories, find the thief who stole her joy, so that we might share the sweet fruit of happiness, together.