That woman named Qing Nuan is my mother.
It was my mother, but she said to me: "I am just the person who brought you into this world, nothing more."
Is this just like this? I'm a little confused.
She smiled again, the spring breeze gently ruffled the willow leaves, and the bright moon shone on the blue pool water. Warmth and desolation blend into a person's soul so naturally. She stroked my hair, and for the first time I felt ashamed of that mess, "You can call me Auntie Nuan."
In my heart, I silently thought of her as "light and warm". She is only suitable for smiling outside the secular world. "Auntie" makes me feel like her flawless body is stained with dust, and I can't bear it.
That year, I was only fourteen years old.