I once had a fierce argument with my mother.

I was in my early twenties, struggling every day with work and making ends meet.

I envied friends who didn't have to worry about livelihoods, couldn't help but yearn for their affluent lives, and resented my own ordinariness, unable to escape the current predicament.

To make matters worse, I was laid off.

I dragged my suitcase back from the company with all my belongings, walked five kilometers home, and locked myself in my room.

My mother didn't know I had lost my job. She knocked on the door and said, "I made braised noodles, come out and eat."

I said no.

She said, "You used to love it, didn't you?"

I said I didn't want to eat now.

My mother rambled outside the door, talking about how I used to forget to set the alarm clock and was always late for school, and how I was still the same after starting work. Yesterday, she sighed at home because I was late again.

She said, "I bought you an alarm clock, it's on your bedside table."

I yanked open the door, my eyes swollen, and asked her, "Why don't you ask me if I want to eat before you cook? Why don't you ask if I need anything before you buy it? You never ask for my opinion about anything." Yes, did you ever ask if I wanted to be born before you gave birth?

My mother's hand was still on the doorknob.

For the sake of convenience, she cut her long hair short in recent years.

I looked at her exposed ears, with the gold earring on her earlobe still the one that man bought her twenty years ago, even after her divorce.

For the first twenty years of my life, I thought that man was the source of my mother's pain. But after I turned twenty, I realized, in a sense, that my birth was the reason she continued to endure the pain.

My mother's lips trembled, but she eventually just calmly let go of the door.

She said, "I'm sorry, I'll ask you about everything from now on."

After this argument, I regretted it quickly. 

Many things cannot be simply defined as right or wrong, especially family affection.

My mother tacitly did not mention that day again, but some things had changed.

Whether big or small, as long as it's about me, my mother will tirelessly ask me.

"Do you want to add bean sprouts to today's braised noodles?"

"You've lost a lot of hair, I cleaned the living room, do you want me to sweep your room, or will you do it yourself?"

"Mom is going to the square to practice square dancing with Aunt Wang tonight. Can you stay home alone?"

These questions last for more than a decade.

Until my mother fell seriously ill.

She forgot many things, and many people too.

Maybe even me.

My mother no longer asked me about trivial matters, nor did she talk much.

Her favorite thing to do was to lie on the couch, basking in the sunlight pouring in from the window, from morning till night.

In my mother's world, there was only a window, half a couch, and she didn't care who I was.

I became a freelancer, and my braised noodles tasted just like hers. I no longer needed an alarm clock to wake up at seven every morning.

The person who frequently asked questions became me.

I held her hand and called her mom, asking, "Do you remember who I am?" Asking, "Do you want to have corn porridge today?" Asking, "Yesterday, you brought the sofa cover back to the bed and hid it under the quilt. Did you think the sofa cover looked nice?" My mother rarely responded.

One afternoon, I washed my mother's feet, squatted on the ground and put on fluffy socks for her, suddenly realizing that she had been watching me all along.

I looked up at her, smiling, and asked, "What's up? Remembered who I am?" 

My mother smiled back and finally answered me, "You are my daughter. My darling."