That night.
I finished my homework, reviewed a set of science practice exams, looked up at the clock, and it was almost 10:30 PM.
At this hour, Mom should have been home long ago. Even if the shop closed late, she should have been back by 10 at the latest.
The flower shop was only a fifteen-minute walk from home.
I felt inexplicably uneasy.
I called her cell phone. It rang a few times and went to voicemail.
Maybe she didn't hear it on the road? Or was her phone dead?
I waited another ten minutes. Still no sign of her.
The night outside the window was thick like ink that wouldn't dissolve. There were very few pedestrians on the street.
I couldn't sit still anymore. I grabbed a jacket to put over my school uniform, took my keys and phone, and went out.
The early summer night breeze carried a chill, brushing against my face and sobering me up a little.
I walked quickly along the familiar street leading to the flower shop. The streetlights stretched my shadow long and short.
This street was quite quiet at night, with most of the small shops on either side already closed.
After turning a corner and walking a bit further was the street where the flower shop was located.
The streetlights here were sparser, the light dim.
I was about to quicken my pace when suddenly, from the entrance of a darker alley next to a fork in the road ahead, I heard the sound of a struggle and a woman's suppressed, panicked scolding.
That voice... it was Mom!
My heart clenched violently, blood rushed to my head, and without thinking, I charged forward.
In the dim light, I saw Mom being dragged by the arm into the alley by a burly man reeking of alcohol. In his other hand, he held a beer bottle, spewing obscenities with slurred speech: "...stop pretending... alone at night... come have some fun with me..."
Mom's bag had fallen to the ground. She struggled desperately, trying to shake off that dirty hand, her face full of terror and anger: "Let go of me! What are you doing! I'll call for help!"
"Go ahead! This damn place... who cares..." The drunkard sneered, his strength astonishing. Mom stumbled as he pulled her.
"Let go of my mom!" I roared, my voice hoarse and unfamiliar even to myself.
I rushed up, grabbed the wrist of the hand dragging Mom's arm, and pulled back with all my might, while using my other hand to pull Mom behind me.
Caught off guard, the drunkard's grip loosened, and he staggered.
He turned his head, his bloodshot eyes glaring at me, reeking of alcohol: "Where did this little brat come from... get lost!"
"An'an!" Mom saw me and screamed, her voice cracking.
"Mom, are you okay?" I shielded her behind me, my eyes fixed on the drunkard in front of me.
He was half a head taller than me, burly, like a mountain of flesh.
"Damn it... looking for death!" Angry that I had ruined his plans, the drunkard cursed obscenely and swung the beer bottle in his hand at me!
"Watch out!" Mom screamed.
I instinctively ducked, but it was too close.
*Thud!* A dull sound. The bottle landed solidly on the left side of my forehead, near the temple.
The world instantly buzzed. Intense pain exploded. Warm liquid trickled down my cheek, carrying a metallic, rusty smell.
My vision went black for a moment. My body swayed, and I almost lost my balance.
"An'an—!!!" Mom's voice was shrill, almost breaking.
The next second, I saw Mom pounce like a madwoman. She grabbed the bag that had fallen on the ground and started hitting the drunkard's face and body with all her might, wildly and indiscriminately!
She was usually so gentle, but now she was like a mother beast protecting her young, erupting with astonishing strength and fury.
"You hit my son! I'll fight you to the death! You beast! Bastard!"
The metal buckle on the leather bag hit the drunkard's face. He cried out in pain and instinctively raised his hand to block.
Now!
Enduring the intense pain and dizziness in my head, while his attention was drawn to Mom, I gritted my teeth, mustered all my strength, and slammed into his waist and abdomen, simultaneously tripping him with my foot!
The drunkard was already unsteady on his feet. With my charge and trip, he lost his balance and fell heavily to the ground with a *thud*. The empty bottle in his hand flew out and rolled aside, shattering with a crisp sound.
He lay on the ground, groaning, unable to get up for a moment.
"Mom! Call the police!" I pressed my hand against my bleeding temple and urgently said to Mom, my eyes still warily fixed on the drunkard on the ground.
Mom frantically rummaged through her bag for her phone, her fingers trembling so much she could barely press the numbers.
While dialing, she kept looking at my bleeding head. Tears suddenly streamed down her face, her voice trembling uncontrollably: "...Hello... 110? There's... there's an assault here... someone hit my son... the address is..."
The wait for the police felt exceptionally long.
I leaned against the wall and slowly slid to sit on the ground. My head throbbed with waves of dizziness and pressure. My hand covered the wound, but blood still seeped through my fingers.
Mom knelt beside me, tightly gripping my uninjured hand. Her hand was icy cold, trembling violently.
With her other hand, she pressed hard on my hand covering the wound, as if that could stop the bleeding. Tears fell *plop plop*, landing on the back of my hand, scalding hot.
"An'an... does it hurt? Huh? Don't be afraid... Mom's here... the police will be here soon..." She repeated incoherently, her eyes fixed on my wound, a mix of shock, fear, and heartache. Her makeup was already ruined.
"It's okay, Mom... just a minor injury." I sucked in a breath, forcing a smile to comfort her, but smiling tugged at the wound painfully. "You... you're not hurt, are you?"
This sentence seemed to hit a switch in Mom. Her tears flowed even more fiercely. She shook her head hard but couldn't speak, just gripping my hand even tighter.
The police arrived quickly. They asked questions, checked my injury, and called an ambulance.
The drunkard was restrained by the police, still muttering curses. Mom and I were taken to the nearby police station to give statements.
A doctor first gave me a simple cleaning and bandaging, saying the wound wasn't too deep, but I needed a tetanus shot and suggested going to the hospital for an X-ray to check for a concussion.
At the police station, Mom sat tightly next to me, one hand never letting go.
When answering the police's questions, her voice, though still trembling a little, was clear and logical. When she mentioned me being hit, her eyes reddened again, but she held back from crying.
After giving our statements, the police said they would deal with the drunkard according to the law and told us to go home and rest, keeping in touch.
By the time we left the police station, it was almost midnight.
The street was empty, only dim yellow streetlights.
The night breeze blew, carrying a chill. Mom took off her thin jacket and, without a word, draped it over me, carefully arranging it.
Her own hands were still cold.
We walked slowly home. Her arm was around mine, supporting me as if I were a fragile piece of porcelain.
Along the way, she hardly spoke, just occasionally looking up at my face, at the bandage on my temple. The heartache and lingering fear in her eyes were so thick they seemed to congeal.
Arriving home, we closed the door.
The house was silent, only the sound of our heavy, unsettled breathing.
Mom turned around to face me.
In the dim light of the entryway, her face was pale, her eyes red and swollen.
She looked at me for a few seconds. Then, without warning, she suddenly opened her arms and pulled me into a tight, tight hug!
Her arms held me with great force, her body trembling slightly.
"You silly child... you silly child!"
She buried her face in the uninjured side of my shoulder and neck. Her voice was muffled, thick with sobs and the tremors of lingering fear. "Who told you to charge forward! Huh? Who told you to charge forward! He had a bottle! He was so strong... what if... what if he had a knife? What if he seriously hurt you? What would I do then!"
As she spoke, tears welled up again, the scalding liquid soaking my neck and collar.
Her hug was a bit suffocating, and my wound throbbed faintly, but I didn't move or push her away.
Slowly, I raised the hand that wasn't being held, hesitated for a moment, then gently placed it on her trembling back, patting it clumsily.
"Mom, I'm okay."
I said softly, my voice unusually clear in the quiet entryway. "Really. It's just a superficial wound. See, I'm fine, aren't I?"
"Fine what! You bled so much!"
Mom looked up at me, her eyes blurred with tears, both angry and heartbroken. "If something happened to you, Mom... Mom..."
She couldn't finish, just hugged me even tighter, as if I would disappear if she let go.
I felt the softness and warmth of her body, smelled her familiar scent, now mixed with the saltiness of tears and the smell of lingering shock.
That little bit of boyish pride for saving her was gradually replaced by a softer, fuller emotion.
"But, Mom."
I gently rested my face against the hair on top of her head. My voice was soft but firm. "I couldn't just watch him bully you. I couldn't. As long as you're okay, me getting a little hurt... really doesn't matter."
I said this very seriously.
Mom's body stiffened slightly in my arms.
Then, I felt the arms holding me tighten even more.
She buried her face deeper into my chest, and her shoulders began to tremble uncontrollably in small, suppressed movements.
She was crying. Not the panicked, frightened crying from before, but another, more complex, deeper kind of sob.
We held each other like that in the dimness of the entryway for a long, long time, so long it felt like time had stopped.
Until my legs started to go numb, Mom seemed to finally calm down a bit and slowly released me.
She raised her hand and touched the edge of the bandage on my temple with her fingertips, extremely gently. Her eyes were still red, but her gaze had regained its usual gentleness, though now with many heavy, unfathomable things in it.
"Does it still hurt?" she asked, her voice hoarse.
"A bit, but I can bear it," I answered honestly.
"Come, go sit on the sofa first. Mom will get you some water, then you can take the medicine the doctor prescribed." She led me, taking care of me like a child, settling me on the sofa, arranging the cushions.
Then she went to get warm water and the medicine, her movements careful and meticulous.
After I took the medicine, she brought warm water again and, carefully avoiding the wound, used a towel to wipe the dried blood from my face and neck.
Her movements were so light, so focused, as if she were doing the most important thing in the world.
By the time I was cleaned up and back in my own bed, it was almost 1 AM.
"Sleep well. Call Mom immediately if you feel unwell." Mom stood at the door, softly instructing.
"Mm, Mom, you should sleep early too." I looked at her tired profile.
"Okay." She gently closed the door.
I thought after such a thrilling night, I would fall asleep quickly.
But the wound throbbed with pain, and my mind was a mess, replaying the fragments of the evening.
I don't know how much time passed before I fell into a fitful sleep.
Mom couldn't sleep. She tossed and turned in bed.
She was still in shock.
She lay with her eyes open, staring at the dark ceiling, her mind repeatedly replaying the scene of me being hit by the bottle, thinking of all the terrible "what ifs," then being submerged by boundless fear and lingering terror.
Mom was wide awake, her mind a tangled mess.
She opened that little app with the red icon.
Usually, she only looked at flower care tips, home cooking recipes, or some fashion sharing here—a small, unknown corner for relaxation.
Her fingers unconsciously scrolled. Various carefully curated fragments of life flashed before her eyes but didn't register in her heart at all.
Until a post popped up. The poster's username was "Late Autumn Falling Flowers." The profile picture was a woman with a gentle side profile and good temperament, looking about her age.
The post was very short, with no accompanying pictures, just a few sparse sentences:
"My son finally 'returned to his hometown.' Although I still feel a bit awkward inside, seeing how happy he looks, it seems everything was worth it. Over time, I've even started to feel a sense of solidity in our dependence on each other. Life is short. Maybe this... isn't wrong either."
There were a few scattered comments underneath. Someone asked what "returned to his hometown" meant. The original poster just replied with a smiling emoji and didn't explain further.
But Mom's heart suddenly skipped a beat.
"Returned to his hometown"... what did it mean, and why were there quotation marks?
These three words were like a special key, *click*, opening a tightly locked drawer in her heart, one filled with shame and confusion.
She immediately thought of herself, of An'an, of those unspeakable, damp nights these past days.
Could it be... that this "returning to the hometown" refers to... that kind of relationship?
She was startled by her own bold guess, her face burning. Yet her fingers, as if with a mind of their own, tapped on "Late Autumn Falling Flowers'" avatar and entered the private chat window.
The cursor blinked in the input box. She typed a few words, then deleted them. It was so late; the other person was probably already asleep.
And what would she even ask? Ask directly, "Are you and your son also..."? That was absurd.
But the urge in her heart to find a kindred spirit, to confirm she wasn't alone falling into this abyss, overwhelmed everything else.
Biting her lip, she finally sent a probing message: "Sorry to bother you so late. I happened to see your post. 'Returning to the hometown'... does it mean getting along better with your son?"
After sending it, she immediately pressed the phone screen against her chest, her heart pounding. She felt like a fool, and also like a child doing something bad and afraid of being caught.
However, almost the next second, her phone vibrated.
She hurriedly picked it up to look.
Late Autumn Falling Flowers: "Still awake? Seems like a sister with worries too. (wink)"
Mom didn't expect such a quick reply, and the tone was calm, without rejection.
She hesitated. The pent-up confusion and pressure that had nowhere to vent for so long now found a seemingly safe crack and poured out violently.
She typed intermittently, omitting real names and locations, only vaguely saying she had a son in his final year of high school, that her husband was away long-term, that her son was under great pressure and in a bad mood, and that she had done some... boundary-crossing things to help him "release the pressure."
She said she was very scared, felt very guilty, didn't know what to do, and lived in contradiction and self-loathing every day.
After sending the message, she waited nervously, even regretting it a little, afraid the other person would think she was a perverted mother and ignore her from then on.
After about a minute, a reply came.
Late Autumn Falling Flowers: "I understand. I understand it all. Don't be afraid, you're not alone."
Then, the other person also intermittently told her own story.
She said her husband had been in a car accident a few years ago, which damaged him fundamentally, and he was no longer a "complete" man.
For treatment, her husband, following some misguided advice from who knows where, actually, actually begged her to "guide" their teenage son, saying it might stimulate her husband's recovery... She felt like the sky had fallen then, furious and resentful, thinking her husband had gone mad.
But seeing her husband's pained and despondent state, and her son becoming gloomy and silent due to the family upheaval, she steeled her heart and, with a self-destructive defiance, actually did it.
"At first, I also felt dirty, bad, unworthy of being a mother."
Late Autumn Falling Flowers typed slowly, it seemed, but every sentence struck Mom's heart. "But what's done is done. Later, I found my son became more cheerful, his grades improved, and the lifeless feeling at home disappeared. My husband... hah, he just hid in the background, pretending not to know anything, and his condition didn't improve. But I gradually felt that when I was with my son, that feeling of being needed and cherished was something I hadn't experienced in a very, very long time. Later, my husband went abroad. My son and I are very careful together, and also... happy."
Happy.
That word was like a small pebble tossed into the turbulent lake of Mom's heart.
Late Autumn Falling Flowers continued: "Sister, I know this is wrong, against morality. But at our age, half a lifetime gone, how many times have we wronged ourselves for our husbands, our children, for this family? Sometimes I think, life is only this long, it's already bitter enough. Should we wait for others to bestow a little bit of secret happiness, or wait until the next life? If you grasp it yourself, even if it can't see the light, it's still warm. As long as you don't hurt others, behind closed doors, you live your own life."
"Of course, you have to protect the child, and protect yourself too. You're still young, the road is long. Don't be too hard on yourself, but don't forget the boundaries either."
These words were both blunt and clear-sighted, without any condescending judgment, only the understanding of shared suffering and a kind of almost cruel pragmatism.
Mom stared at the words on the screen for a long time, speechless.
She hadn't expected the other person's situation to be more complicated, more extreme than her own, but that feeling of seeking reliance and warmth within the taboo was so similar.
They chatted for about half an hour. Finally, the other person said: "It's late, time to sleep. Remember, you're just a woman... who wants to live a little warmer. You can talk to me again if you need to. No one knows us here."
After ending the chat, Mom exited the app and put the phone back on the nightstand.
The room fell into darkness again, but her heart no longer felt as cold and suffocating as before.
So... there really were people like her.
So behind that extreme shame, a twisted, socially unacceptable kind of "warmth" could also sprout.
The words of Late Autumn Falling Flowers seemed to provide a seemingly reasonable explanation, even a morbid comfort, for the contradictions and downfall she had been experiencing.
She recalled An'an throwing himself in front of her, his smiling through the blood, his dependent and longing embraces these nights, the improvement in his grades and the light rekindled in his eyes... and also, those undeniable, long-lost stirrings and pleasures in her own body.
The guilt still weighed heavily, but another force, a kind of "since it's already like this, might as well make it worthwhile" resignation, mixed with a deep love for her son and a certain awakened private desire, quietly raised its head.
"Happiness, if you don't pursue it yourself, will you just wait for it..." she murmured, repeating that phrase, turned over, and buried her face in the pillow, which seemed to still carry a faint trace of her son's scent.
Her chaotic thoughts gradually blurred. Her taut nerves, having found some kind of "resonance" and "excuse," relaxed strangely.
Thinking of those shameful yet tender fragments, of Late Autumn Falling Flowers' words, of how An'an would need her care when he woke up tomorrow morning, her consciousness finally sank heavily into sleep.
------------------------------------
You guys can get access to the early chapters in my patreon: patreon.com/FloppyQueen
Do support me guys and you can access 15+ chapters early.
Also thank you guys for all the support.