Chapter 1

I can't forget the scene I witnessed that day. It was like a dream, burying unknown secrets.

I left the court and had a basketball in my arms. The basketball was yellowish and had a blood mark on it.Blood is mine.

The memory of that day was so clear that I fell into a cruel dream.I regard it as a dream to protect myself and I don’t want to admit that it is reality.

My mother is a columnist, a heroic woman who regards herself as a progressive woman.

She is considered pretty, and her figure is rare among middle-aged women. Although I have never looked at her from a woman's perspective, it seems irrelevant to talk about beauty.

As long as I can remember, she has been trying to play the role of a loving mother, but she has a heroic face and a very personalized behavior, so her efforts are not very successful.

My mother does not have long hair, and her hair will not cross her shoulders.Her hair is curly, and friends always ask her if she has done air perm.But only the father and son knew that she was not careful and never comb her hair when she woke up in the morning.

Sometimes she laughs and laughs, like a girl who has not grown up.

She could tell a joke that was not funny at all and then laughed on the side.

If such a woman tries to move closer to the direction of loving love, she may only look crazy.

My father once told me that she was the captain of the debate team in college, with a quick mind, and a straightforward personality, and always had a cool image.

Perhaps, this has something to do with her family.

My mother lost her father when she was young and learned to face the storm alone at a very young age. Her personality has been tempered for many years.

She only learned to be gentler after she had you. My father once joked that she was not like this when she was in love with me. Then she was a heroine with a fearless face.

When I first started high school, my mother always said that the food in the school was not good, and insisted on coming to deliver food every Wednesday and making me lunch boxes like bentoes.

The first time she came to my high school, she ran to the school cafeteria to block me.

This is a cooking made by my mother. She tucked her waist, grinned with a shy face, but couldn't hide her awesomeness. Can you give me a look?

This woman didn't know how to cook before, at least I hadn't eaten anything from her before I went to high school, and I'm afraid that all I had to count was milk.Out of curiosity, I asked her why she had never cooked.

How come you have the stereotype that your mother must cook?

She sat in front of the computer without looking back, preparing for the next day's interview draft. Do you think your father is not fond of it?

The woman's answer was so sharp that I was a little overwhelmed by the elementary school student.

As if she noticed it, she raised her hand and gently shaved my face. Suddenly she was like a scoundrel, and she grinned, "I don't know."

But she had no idea where the enthusiasm came from, and later she learned cooking skills with me, perhaps to prove to her son that she also has the ability to be a traditional woman who can go to the kitchen.

Although she disdains to do it, for me, my mother seemed willing to bow her head and give in.

However, during my adolescence, I only care about the eyes around me.

High school is boarding system, and after school, my mother would bring her lunch boxes to the school gate to wait for me.

Sometimes she even pushed and shoved her, insisting on going to the cafeteria to eat with me.

In the eyes of others, she looked like a foreign language teacher who came to teach me somewhere. My friends were having fun and making more vulgar jokes. This made me feel embarrassed for a long time.

For this reason, I had a fight with my mother, and I scolded her very seriously, and it seemed that I had hurt her.I forgot how I compromised later, maybe it was my father?I can't remember it.

I care what troubles you have.

My father warned me, don’t look at your mother who is brother to you, she will not sleep at noon and will stop working. She will think about letting you eat something nutritious for the afternoon.If you dislike her, you will be too ignorant.

The classroom window was against the campus gate. Before the afternoon class was finished, the stubborn woman guarded the school gate.She always wears her beige wedge sandals and holds a lunch box wrapped in black cloth in her hand.

The bus she took on often came early, so she waited at the door for a long time.She has a habit of being bored, she likes to tilt the heels on the ground, and the heels of the sandals beat and make a sound.

I know that all she stored in her phone was popular pop music, even though she never hummed in front of me.

My mother knew I was not interested.

I am not a trendy person. I occasionally ask her what songs she calls, and what she says are names that I only hear.

In short, when I saw a slender figure appearing at the door and the short-haired woman, I knew it was my mother, and I could even hear the clattering sound of her shoes.

At first I felt a little disgusted, but over time, every last class, I became hungry earlier.

That's it, one day I thought so.

I have a mother who delivers food to me. She always makes her son happy, and she is also improving her cooking skills, and everything is safe and happy.

What does it matter what others think?

I don't care about other people's eyes. I think this is what my mother wants to teach me.It’s a pity that I have never been grateful for the love behind this woman.I can always get used to it easily and take it for granted.

Until that day, everything changed.