My mother often pulled me to the wicker chair in the courtyard in the afternoon, and while stroking my forehead, she said to me: "Son, dad still loves us, he is just blinded by money. I believe that one day, he will take us back."
The sun shone directly into my eyes through the gaps between her fingers. My mother smiled softly, immersed in her own imaginary world, and worked tirelessly to comfort my injured heart. She used this lie to deceive me when I was young, and also deceived myself.