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Kyle, who is going to be in the fourth grade after the summer break, has begun to read Sherlock Holmes in the past few days. Everywhere he can be seen with the book in his hands, studying it intently, against the wall, in the shade, in the corner of the big sofa chair, my little boy is in the weird, mysterious world of Sherlock Holmes, and he doesn't even notice who passes him by. But once in a while he would suddenly call out to me in a loud voice, "Mommy, Mommy." After I answered him, he made no more noise. Sometimes, when I was in another room and didn't hear his call, he would come to me with a higher voice than the one he was calling, with a slight anxiety and fear in his voice, and when he saw me he smiled, and without a word turned around and went back to reading his book, and I asked him after him what he wanted with me. He said: "Nothing, just checking to see if you were there." I couldn't help but smile at the little boy! He must have been so frightened by the book and refused to reveal it to me that he had to come back to the real world whenever he could to seek my company. Just knowing that his mom was right beside him would give him a hundred times more courage to follow Holmes on his adventures again, I guess. So, on these hot afternoons, I purposely found something to do to walk beside him, and felt peace in my heart, knowing that my little boy still needed my company, and that I was a happy mother. I used to think that my mother didn't love me. That's because, I've always felt that I was the least deserving of love out of my five children. I didn't have the intelligence and beauty of my sisters, I didn't have the quietness and softness of my younger sister, and unlike my younger brother, I was the only boy in the family. Unlike my brother, who was the only boy in the family, I was headstrong and suspicious, and was really the redundant one in the family. But I wanted my mother to love me. From her, how I longed to hear a tender word and receive a tender caress, and how I wished that my mother could hold me tightly in her arms and say to me, "You are my favorite, most beloved baby." However, my mother has always been a silent woman. For as long as I can remember, I was always with my grandmother, and my mother never seemed to hug me. She always had my sister or brother in her arms, smiling at me from afar, and I never seemed to be able to get close to her. As I grew up, I sometimes felt reluctant and would ask my mother questions in a roundabout way, trying to get some proof from her that I too had merits and was worthy of love. However, my mother always laughed at my strange questions, and when she was anxious, she would gently scold me: "Fool, I gave birth to all of them, how could I be biased?" I also have some candidates will be pampered like to rely on her side, hoping that she can turn back to hug me a little, or kiss me. However, no matter how much I pestered her, hinted at her, and even playfully begged her, my mother never gave me any enthusiastic response, she would always say: "Don't make a fuss! She would always say, "Stop it! You're such a big man, you're not afraid of people laughing at you!" I left her quietly every time, and quietly retreated to my own corner, with a familiar uneasiness and resentment in my heart that could not fade away for a long time. It lasted until I had a child of my own. Living with my mother during those first months of my child's life, learning how to care for a small infant. One day, when my mother was putting a floppy hat on my child to protect him from the wind, the pink brim of which was adorned with tiny flowers, making my child's face look even more like a warm-scented rosebush, my mother suddenly burst out laughing: "Rongrong, come and see, this little one is just like you when you were a child!" Having said that, she took my child, my fragrant and soft little baby into her arms and kissed him fiercely several times. I stood then at the door of the room, and my heart felt like a heavy blow, and for a moment I was sad and happy. The thing I longed for so much, the thing I had been asking for but had not been able to fulfill, my mother had given it to me from the very beginning! But why did it take so many years to let me know, to let me understand? Why did it have to be arranged in such a way? When I was packing up my desk or my wardrobe, Cee liked to stand by and watch, because sometimes some object she liked would run out, and if she begged softly, I would most often give it to her. Sometimes it was a Spanish fan, sometimes a pretty note-book, sometimes a string of glass beads, and when she got it, she was always as delighted as if it were a treasure. On this day, she came to visit again. I was organizing those old photo albums, and she picked up an enlarged photo and asked me, "Who is this?" "This is mom! It's a picture of me when I won first place in a dance competition in Europe." "Nonsense! How can it be you? Why do you know how to dance with ribbons?" The dancer in the photo was elegantly waving two long ribbons, standing in the middle of the stage, her face with three parts shyness and seven parts pride after applying makeup. "It's me! At that time, I hadn't been in Belgium for long, I participated in the international student dance competition organized by the University of Leuven, I was the main character, and there were eight other female classmates who danced with me, and we were ......" Before she finished her sentence, her classmates rode their bicycles outside the window, calling her name loudly, and her daughter jumped up to the window, calling her name. leapt up and answered loudly out the window, "Coming! Coming!" Then turning back to me with a wave of her hand, she ran happily out the door. When I got to the door, I could see the backs of the girls, who were just junior high school students, but all of them were tall and big, and rode their bikes very fast. I still had the photo in my hand, but I had a lot to tell my daughter. I would like to tell her how seriously we rehearsed again and again, how we took photos of each other during the performance, how excitedly and enthusiastically our male classmates cooked us snacks and took photos of us when we found out that we had won the first prize; in fact, it was only a small school activity, but because we used Chinese students' names and won the first prize in more than twenty countries, it made a group of Chinese students tightly connect with each other! I had a very happy evening. I wanted to tell my daughter about these happy memories, but I didn't get the chance. At the dinner table, she was the one who talked excitedly and enthusiastically, and she and her classmates had so many interesting and important things to say to each other that I couldn't even get in the middle of it. I could only smile at her from afar throughout the evening. Taiwan's household register can be a very warm or a very unforgiving thing. The dynamics of each person, every move in and out is meticulously recorded in it, which is both trivial and lengthy. After living in the same place for a long time, there is too much information, and some pages are attached to the original book, which makes it very troublesome to take in and out, and our household name book in Xinbeitou was like that. I miss it now, because that kind of hustle and bustle is no longer there. A few years ago, my mother used to go abroad to visit various places, sometimes staying at my father's place, sometimes at my sister's house, and occasionally at my brother's house for a few months; when I had to go through the procedures for these visits, she would write me a letter asking me to apply for a transcript of the entire household from that one point at the New Beitau household registration office, and each time she would note at the end of the letter that she would apply for several points, so that I would not lose it. a few more points, don't lose them." Since we had all moved out and the house had been resold to someone else, all the information about our household had been collected, and only one file number remained. When I went to apply, I reported that number, and the household staff would find that file, which had become old and yellow, and photocopy a point for me. It was only then that I could see my old home again, those dear names, and all the tender memories I had almost forgotten that had followed those dear names back. I think I may understand my mother's feelings when she always asked me to request a few more transcripts. Because her current household register was very clean and simple, and because my mother had lived across the street from my house since she returned to China, she had formed her own household, and therefore only the name of the head of the household was on the register. My mother's name was the only one written in the whole book. After analyzing my condition in detail, the doctor suddenly said to me in a particularly gentle tone, "In any case, it's absolutely impossible for you to get your old mother back." The doctor was probably also about sixty years old, dressed very well, and had a gentle air, as well as a kind of wisdom and insight unique to the elderly. There was a very short pause after he had said this, as if he knew that by this time I should have begun to weep. However, I was not fooled, I just refused to be fooled, and I did not let a single tear show. I am not going to fall for that easily. In this world, there are some things you can believe. There are some things you can never believe. Never shed a tear. A tear means you believe his words, and a tear means you are admitting that the truth is unchangeable. Although my mother had another stroke, since she overcame such a severe illness last time and was able to get back on her feet again, who dares to say that she will not recover this time? Who dares to tell me that I can't be a strong and happy mom again? I bowed coldly to the doctor and thanked him before returning to my mother's bed. My mother is in the post-stroke sleepy phase, so she should get better in a few days. Once she's a little better, she can start doing rehab exercises, and as long as she keeps her faith, she shouldn't have any problems. My father and sisters called long distance and said they would be back with her as soon as possible. I think this doctor didn't know my mother very well and didn't realize how strong and resilient she was, and that's why he came to such a wrong conclusion about me. At night, I left the hospital and drove home alone, still thinking about what the doctor had said during the day, when suddenly something flashed through my mind, and my whole being was stunned by the suddenness of the idea. What the doctor said was not wrong! The mom from before, the mom from before, the doctor wasn't wrong! As the days went by, the old mom changed day by day, and never came back! Which one is my old mom? Was it the old woman with white hair who took one step at a time with a cane in her left hand in the Shimen countryside before her second stroke? Or was it the richly dressed woman at a friend's Christmas party in Europe with her husband before the first stroke? Or a little earlier, the mother who stood with her children on the grass in front of her house in Xinbeitou, still smiling softly? Or a little earlier, in a photo studio in Nanjing, the young woman holding her newborn baby in her arms, surrounded by her husband and children, smiling at the camera? Or was it earlier, in the fields of the Chongqing countryside, fleeing from enemy air raids, while worrying not to scare the children around her, not to crush the fetus in her womb? Or earlier, earlier, in an old yellowed photo, in a black tweed coat with a leather collar, standing in a snowy courtyard in Beiping, the young girl with the dark and bright eyes? Or even earlier, even earlier, I just accidentally heard of, in the Mongolian steppe, the ten-year-old girl who loved to pick up some round stones in the riverbed to play at home? The old mom, the old mom! As the days went by, for the sake of us five children, the former moms were left behind day by day, and never came back! The current mom is certainly recoverable again, yet, it can never be the same mom I had before either. "Mommy, Mommy." On the highway late at night, I gently called out to the mother who smiled gently at me in those passing years, my former mother of all those who could not come back again, and could not help but lose my voice and cry alone. The car drove fast, the road is so dark and dark ah!