Before I jumped from the thirteenth floor, I sent four words to my mother: "Mom, I'm sorry."
I did not disappear after death. I saw her making pork rib soup every day, setting out two sets of bowls and chopsticks, and shouting "It's time to eat" to the empty chairs.
It was twenty-one days after I saw her that I dared to open my diary.
I saw her walking a long way alone to hold the hand of someone who no longer recognized her.
I saw her cancel her mobile phone number, quit her job, and disappear from everyone's life.
Then I was born again.
On the first day of her rebirth, she was still making pork rib soup in the kitchen and knew nothing about my last words.
This time, I don't plan to die.
But I have to figure one thing out first -
What is she hiding from me?
