Seven-Day Cicada

Zhaoxia died in her twenties, when she finally understood her mother. As a "burden" after her parents divorced, her childhood was a long wandering. Amidst the harshness of relatives and the indifference of his father, he learned to protect himself with rebellion and world-weariness. She once resented her mother's "abandonment". It wasn't until her terminal illness came and her life entered a countdown that the neglected details came flooding in - her mother's hands, deformed by years of hard work, were once as fair and slender as hers; her mother's silence in the divorce judgment contained a lot of helplessness. "My whole life, I've been like a monkey tearing open corn, getting and throwing away at the same time. It wasn't until the end that I realized that I had lost the most precious thing, you." She left, but left seven letters. Please ask my cousin to send one every other month. This is her last gift to her mother. The letter contains the gratitude and guilt that she could not express before her death, the relief that her mother "abandoned" her, and the instructions for her mother for the rest of her life: take medicine on time, watch the sea for her, climb mountains for her, and enjoy the world for her. This is a book that makes you cry from beginning to end. There is the suffocating pain of the original family, the silent collapse of the adult world, and the most poignant flower of family love that blooms in despair. When you finish reading the last letter, you will understand: There are no perfect parents in this world, only mortals who learn to love clumsily. And love is often deafening when it is too late to express it. "Mom, if I am your mother in the next life, I will definitely spoil you and make you the happiest child in the world."