When I reached middle age, I went back to my old house for the first time to sort out my old things.
Pushing open the dusty wooden door, I opened the wooden box that my parents had hidden all their lives.
There was no gold, silver, or jewelry, just stacks of yellowed medical records, IOUs, and old lamps, old clothes, and old food stamps that I had disliked when I was a child.
It was only then that I suddenly realized:
The glorious half of my life in the city turned out to be secretly earned by them through a lifetime of hardship.
When I was young, I didn't understand the kindness of my parents. When I did, I was already middle-aged.
This time, I won't miss it again.
