When I was very young, I would just run endlessly, passing through the willows and peach blossoms, leaving all the servants who followed me far away. Or climb up an inconspicuous and sturdy tree and look down at the panic on the ground. All the slaves turned pale and zombie-like because of my disappearance. In fact, they were the walking dead. Then there was a "pop" sound, and the branch broke. I fell to the ground, and was pricked with blood from the raised stones.
I saw my mother's heavy slaps leaving heavy red marks on the servants' faces. They could only lower their heads and listen to her sharp and mean curses. And my mother would hold my delicate face, place a gentle kiss on my forehead, and say tenderly, My Ze'er, you are my only hope, there must be no mistakes, no! I don't know what makes a woman so decisive and cool. It was only many years later that I realized that the so-called hope is just a gorgeous coat of chips.