“Chun Zao, my dear daughter, may this letter find you well.

This is a letter I planned to give you on the eve of your wedding.

I’ve been contemplating writing such a letter for ten years, because of that unforgettable yet now-reconciled night:

I say reconciled because it took me a full year to face it properly. It shattered a strong and rigid ‘sacrifice mentality’ I had built up over more than a decade. I used this so-called sacrifice to run roughshod, interfering and manipulating your lives, treating the act of giving you life as a get-out-of-jail-free card and as a touchstone for my misunderstood life choices. I was too eager to be recognized by everyone, especially those who questioned and slandered me. But when I received your acceptance letter the following year, I instinctively broke down sobbing. Most of the reason wasn’t because I was finally recognized, that my efforts had paid off, but because I was crying for our mutual liberation as mother and daughter, crying for you. Child, all these years, I’ve witnessed your hard work and self-discipline. It pained me, but I couldn’t think of better methods. My abilities were very limited, my patience had been worn away by life, and my educational knowledge was relatively lacking. I couldn’t govern lazily, so I passively chose an across-the-board authoritarian approach.

I say unforgettable because that night truly stung me, shocked me, and awakened me. Otherwise, I would still be living muddled in my world—a world of self-numbing and self-deception. In that world, I was self-righteous, made decisions arbitrarily, feared change, and rejected transformation. I needed stability. Daughter, you became that unlucky victim, the unlucky victim of my lost self. When my life made new choices, it also completely lost direction, because I felt that direction wasn’t my true intention, perhaps just a gust of wind, a wave that pushed me to a lonely, boring place. I felt abandoned by both the world and myself. After that pathetic drifting, I made you my lifeline, the vessel of my life’s value, a visible refuge. I wanted to correct and compensate for all my mistakes through you, and wanted you to live as my ideal self. And your sister Chun Chang, too. Like my two potted plants, I stubbornly believed that as long as I carefully tended and pruned, watching you flourish, I could soothe my restless heart.

But this was wrong.

I couldn’t find peace.

While controlling you, I was also imprisoning myself.

I’ve watched that movie you and your sister often mention, ‘The Shawshank Redemption.’ ‘Some birds aren’t meant to be caged, because their feathers are just too bright.’ I know you were hinting at me—that bespectacled warden, while you were the protagonists. But I want to say, I was actually ‘Red’ in that movie, that confused Black man. I was also trapped. That summer after your college entrance exam, you gained freedom, and I gained freedom too. But strangely, I suddenly couldn’t adapt to this freedom. My insomnia became very serious—sleeping at one or two, waking at four or five. I didn’t know where to place myself. You worked part-time, fell in love, learned various skills, applied beautiful light makeup, experimented with fresh hairstyles—like a fish in water, never tiring. But not me. I seemed left behind in that dim kitchen. Even playing cards felt detached, as if… I should be doing those things, doing something liberating. But every time on the way home, I’d fall into vast, heavy emptiness, then toss and turn.

At that moment, I realized I had lost direction once again.

Daughter, I seem to have never properly introduced myself to you.

My real self.

My surname is Chun, my given name is Chun Chuzhen. Your grandfather chose this name, meaning ‘a pearl first emerging from its shell, a newborn treasure.’ Your grandfather was a middle school teacher, but not pedantic. He strongly disagreed with ‘ignorance is virtue for women,’ so from childhood, he hoped I would study hard and surpass men. Influenced by this family environment, I had decent grades from childhood through university, entering an ideal college. Though far inferior to you and your sister, it was an enviable result back then. Jobs weren’t as hard to find as they are now for you. After graduation, I was assigned to work as a librarian. You probably can’t imagine—I’m someone who loves reading books, not scrolling TikTok. In the past, I spent most of my time immersed in ink, not cooking smoke. In my twenties and thirties, I hadn’t yet experienced life’s ‘weariness,’ hadn’t been worn down by reality. I had edges and sharpness, youth and vitality, full of curiosity and passion for the world, like gliding in an ice rink where the blades never got stuck. East, south, west, north—I had opportunities to skate toward anywhere I wanted to go.

Later, I often felt ‘tired,’ my mind wouldn’t turn, and I could only find brief rest in chaotic, noisy content—perhaps like how you enjoy drinking milk tea and eating small cakes. It only required input, no thinking.

When did this begin? It wasn’t because of your birth. Many people blame life’s changes or reversals on children, thinking children break up and reorganize their two-person world, turning everything upside down. But no—those are just excuses self-contradictory adults find for themselves, relying on children’s inability to speak up before true independence. The problems in my life were always buried there, never faced or resolved. Even without children, they would have exploded someday.

I must admit my love for you isn’t as pure as clear water—it’s mixed with complex components, perhaps resentment, unwillingness, jealousy.

But essentially speaking, most of my unhappiness was closely related to your father.

I met him in the library, too. He loved reading and borrowing books then. Through our interactions, we connected. He was a gentle, handsome young man with almost no temper, completely accommodating to me. I always told friends and your grandmother that I seemed to have found my dream partner—stable job, stable personality, stable family background. But I completely failed to realize that sometimes such smooth personalities correlate with cowardice, indecisiveness, and lack of responsibility. After marriage, it was as if high walls were built and my girlhood crystal ball was shattered. I was forced to face many things directly: your father’s detachment, his obsession with superficial romance, and his undisguised refined egoism—all deeply hurting me over these many years. His avoidance forced me to shoulder the family burden, or the roof would collapse on my children’s heads. Just like that, I jumped from illusion into reality.

I didn’t feel ‘tired’ yet then.

Real ‘tiredness’ came from misfortune’s lack of favor.

I became pregnant with you. Even while using an IUD. This might sound conceited, but I always felt you and Chun Chang’s self-identity partly inherited mine—my genes, my personality. And this part of me came from your grandparents. Bloodline influence is always interconnected. Originally, I didn’t want to lose my job, but I also didn’t want to become a cold, selfish person like your father. Especially when he decided to abandon you if you weren’t a boy, I became determined to give birth to you and take responsibility for raising you. I knew this would be my life’s turning point. Everyone advised against it, but somehow, that day, leaving the hospital with the breeze on my face, I wanted you to feel the wind too, to see the sun. If I let you go, I would think myself too cruel.

But I overestimated my ability to face all future changes. I had never truly been a mother. Before this, your grandparents cared for your sister more—they were like a wall between me and real life. The bookshelves in the library were another wall. After your birth, reality truly crashed down on me hard. It was too painful, too difficult—I had to tough it up, losing much in the process. Your late grandfather initially criticized me harshly for wanting to have you, gave me the cold shoulder, said I wasn’t worthy of coming home for the New Year, and treated me as if I weren’t his daughter. Your uncle Chun Qiming happened to emigrate with his whole family then, with great prospects and vast horizons. Compared to him, I appeared even more short-sighted and mediocre—someone trapped in daily necessities and trivial matters without ambition.

Growth is like this sometimes—one decision can fork life toward different places.

I chose a path others couldn’t understand.

I chose to become a ‘mother,’ a real mom. Though pain, contradiction, and struggle often accompanied this choice, watching you grow from a crying infant to running freely to standing tall and graceful, taller than me, thoughtful, willful, knowledge-rich, experienced, warmth and comfort no other relationship could bring. But I also couldn’t control becoming resentful, worldly, sharp, petty, and hatefully calculating, because caring for two children simultaneously isn’t simple, especially two girls. I couldn’t favor one over the other or neglect discipline. Reality is chaotic, life is full of temptations—a girl can easily go astray. I was too tired, not concretely tired, but with an ungraspable fatigue—unable to voice it, with no support, no understanding. I spent many years in this vicious cycle, day after day. Many years alone.

I wasn’t unaware of your and your sister’s inner rebellion and yearning for freedom. I’m sorry for looking through your tin box. That day, I was angry but also jealous—under such pressure, you still had vast seas and stars, touching delicate sentiments. What about me? You and your sister probably don’t know I took psychiatric medication for many years. For a long time, I couldn’t reconcile with myself. I would often zone out before the discounted vegetable shelves in supermarkets. Sometimes when selecting fish and the boss weighed them, I’d stare at those fish in glass tanks, unknowingly tearing up until the boss called me back. Returning home, I’d transform back into that fierce, authoritarian, endlessly nagging mother who seemed fearless and indestructible—back into everything ‘unbeautiful’ and ‘ungentle.’

I must apologize—I just couldn’t control myself.

If I didn’t act this way, I’d feel hollow, unreliable—like a bridge eaten hollow by termites, how could I carry you across the river? If you and Chun Chang didn’t have secure lives, safe environments, stable grades, bright futures, I would feel guilty—guilty toward you, guilty toward myself. I didn’t care about becoming an evil mother, an evil mother you all wanted to escape. But before that, I hoped you could grow up safely, even if it meant being resented.

Now you’re about to form your own family. A few days ago, you told me you insisted to the wedding company that you must walk down the aisle holding my hand at the lawn ceremony. I was actually flattered, because in all the weddings I’ve attended, this position and role is usually filled by the father. For many fathers, this moment is when their presence in the family is strongest. If your dad were walking you down the aisle, I imagine it would be the same.

I believe you won’t follow in my footsteps. Because little Yuan isn’t like your father, you’ve known each other early and understand each other well enough. Before truly entering marriage, your relationship probably already surpasses many lovers and relatives. Little Yuan is a precocious, kind, upright child who thinks, has opinions, and knows how to consider others. So do you. That you like each other doesn’t surprise me. But that was during a crucial high school period—those brief one or two years weren’t enough for me to truly accept and embrace someone from my heart. A boy, if responsible enough, should first learn restraint and self-control, not invade a girl’s life at inappropriate moments based solely on passionate love. I know liking someone is hard to control. But too many girls ruin their futures because of romance—I’ve seen it, heard it, experienced it. I couldn’t let you take that risk. You were lucky—you were well-matched, loving, and encouraging each other, growing and progressing together. But there are many unfortunate girls, like your mother, like me.

My life has been so unfortunate, yet so fortunate.

I have two good daughters who, despite having an unqualified mother, remained so persistent, so firm in their true hearts, both living as they wanted while influencing, inspiring, and saving me.

So after twenty belated years, I’ve also found my ‘self.’ I understood later that you—it was you who encouraged me to step out. I now regularly volunteer, going to nursing homes and special education schools, often visiting the city library to read, not as staff but as a complete reader. I’ve found long-lost peace. The reading glasses you helped me get work well, and your sister recommended many feminist books. I often read them with sudden clarity and tears, because I see countless versions of myself, countless moments, countless problems that troubled me, and their answers.

Tomorrow you’ll enter another phase of your life. You may face new problems, new choices, pursue new answers.

But I believe with your talents, your wisdom, and your partner’s solidarity, you’ll smile through all storms.

If someday you feel weary, you can look back—Mom will always stand at the shore.

Chun Zao, I named you Chun Zao because both spring and early morning signify beginnings and hope.

‘Winter Pasture’ writes: ‘People can feel “happiness” not because they live comfortably, but because they live with hope.’

Thank you for being born.

Though it took away some of my ease, it also gave me new hope.

After marriage, I was often shrouded in gloom, with frozen rivers everywhere, but there were many clear mornings, melting springs, all because of your existence.

At this letter’s beginning, I called you my daughter.

At this letter’s end, I will no longer call you my daughter.

I hope life’s answers remain firmly in your grasp, regardless of your identity or others’ expectations.

Chun Zao, you are you.

May you and little Yuan have a hundred years of harmony, satisfaction in all seasons, peace, health, and happiness.

May you, even after donning your white veil, remain independent, beautiful, confident, free, enjoying an even more brilliant and splendid life.

Chun Chuzhen

On a spring night, Saturday.”

[The End]